NationStates Jolt Archive

The Tower of Arilinn loomed ever closer like a lone, slender mountain. Shavanni Storn was relieved to see it getting closer, finally. Distances were so deceptive in these flat lands. You rode and rode toward an objective one thought was a few hours’ ride away, and it got no closer. Or, you rode slowly, thinking the clump of trees or tiny village was a long way away, and suddenly you were upon it.

She had wearied of this journey some days ago, and had Lord Gabriel not demanded it of her as a duty, she would have yielded to Esteban’s grumblings and returned to the mountains with her errand undischarged, regardless of the discomfort of the dreams. But Gabriel had been firm.

“We have no leronis here of sufficient skill to sort through this matter, daughter-to-be. And I can see it is affecting your health as well as your peace of mind. Perhaps the Tower can determine the cause of these strange, disturbing dreams that give you no rest. In any case, the matter of them is such that someone among the Comyn of the Council should know, if they are more than just dreams.”

“When have we ever cared for the hali’imyn of the plains, father?” Esteban had been angry. “Shavanni is but a year or so past threshold sickness. This may be just some recurrence. Let Domna Margali look after her. Perhaps kirian will stop the dreams.”

Gabriel had shaken his head patiently. “No, my son. Domna Margali has already said this matter is beyond her knowledge and skill. Would you put your promised wife’s health at risk? No, this matter must go to a Tower. You shall escort Shavanni, and I will send Beltran and a detachment of our best guards to accompany you. And Merris, to look after Shavanni.”

Three tendays had passed since they set out through the mountains. They had stopped in a village at the end of the Kilghard hills to trade in their sturdy mountain ponies for the tall horses of the plains twelve days since. There had been curious glances at the Aldaran banner as they rode, but contrary to Esteban’s evident expectation, none had offered them insult or hostility.

Shavanni let the neck of her cloak fall open a little as they rode. It was immodest, perhaps, but only Merris was near, and it was so hot on these plains. Hot and stifling—to one used to the cool mountain breezes of the Hellers.

The Tower loomed ever closer, and in what seemed no time at all, their horses rode under the lintel of the great gate. A grizzled, sturdy man with a well-worn sword hilt protruding from a worked-leather sheath approached them with open hand, but wary eyes.

“Greetings, vai Dom, Domina. It is time out of memory since we have been visited from Aldaran. What is your business with the Tower of Arilinn?”

His tone was courteous enough, but Esteban responded a trifle truculently. “We are not to be questioned by servants. I am Dom Esteban, Heir to Aldaran, and this is the Damisela Shavanni Storn, my promised wife. We would talk to… to…” his face flamed as he realized he did not know the names of anyone here, or even the proper title to ask for.

“Dom Gabriel himself has sent us here, Uncle,” Shavanni gave him the respectful title due a man of senior years but non-noble status. “We seek to confer with one of the vai leroni about a matter that has concerned the Lord of Aldaran.”

The man nodded. “You may leave your horses and men here. I’ll have my men see to their care. Raldir!” he called over his shoulder to a younger man in a guardsman’s tunic with the Arilinn device. “Show the vai Comy’ii to the Stranger’s Room.”

The younger man waited for them to dismount, and led them to a low, rambling stone building, not part of, but next to, the Tower itself. He bowed them into a room with a fireplace, chairs, and table. “You must be refreshed after your journey,” he murmured. “I will send food and drink, and inform the vai leroni of your arrival.”

Shavanni looked around the room curiously. It seemed bare and utilitarian, but perhaps it was not representative of a plains dwelling, being merely a waiting area. As she looked curiously at the small embroidery of Cassilde at her loom that hung over the fireplace, two kyrrii glided in, bearing trays laden with bowls and pitchers. Shavanni had never seen a kyrri before. They did not have them in the mountains. She knew that many Towers had nonhuman servants, and regarded the tall, gray-pelted creature with interest. Its glowing green eyes seemed to flash with amusement at her regard, but they simply put down the trays, made a gesture inviting the guests to serve themselves, and left.

Merris poured them cups of wine, and handed a bowl of stew to Beltran, the Aldaran guard captain. She offered a bowl to Esteban, but he waved it away. She knew better than to offer it to Shavanni, but, “Surely, a little bread, my lady?”

Shavanni sighed. “Not yet, Merris. My stomach is still chancy from the ride.”

As Merris resumed her seat, there was a stir at the door. A tall, red-haired man stood in framed there, regarding them gravely.

“S’dia shaya, kinsmen. I am Coryn Ridenow, Technician to the First Circle of Arilinn. How may I serve you?”

(OOC: Sorry I let this go for so long, was out of town.)

“Aldarans?” Caitlyn Hastur, Keeper of the First Circle of Arilinn, was astounded.

Her cousin Coryn, who had predicted her response accurately, promised himself an afternoon’s hawking as his winnings. “The Heir to Aldaran himself, no less. A bumptious pup. And his promised bride. She looks pleasant enough. They will speak only with a leronis. Or rather, the girl will do so. I gather she is the reason for this extraordinary visitation.”

Caitlyn wondered if she should send a message to her cousin Marcus, the Regent. There had been reports of unrest among the Khilgard folk lately, and the Altons had been having to fight off large, well-armed, well-organized bands of blank-shield raiders, lately. Too well organized. Almost as though someone with laran were using the old skills of sentry-bird rapport to augment human scouts, or reading unwary and unshielded minds, here and there. Since they had settled the old blood-feud with the Varela of Mornay Glen, there were no logical candidates ready to suspect.

Not that Marcus cared about the constant, low-level raiding, blood feuds, etc., that kept the sword arms of the Domains practiced. But anything unexplained, especially in the verges of the Hellers, was worth watching. Was Aldaran stirring? They had left the Six Domains strictly alone for time out of mind. But the old, old banishment was always there. The suspicion, the possibilities.

Caitlyn decided to contact Marcus in the relays tonight, after seeing the Aldaran girl. For now, it would be enough to see what she wanted.

“Very well. You may bring her to me.”

“Through the Veil, Caitlyn? What if some treachery….”

Caitlyn laughed merrily. “Honestly, Coryn. If you and twenty-two other Arilinn telepaths are not sufficient protection for me against one untrained mountain bumpkin, you might at least remember who and what I am.”

The Keeper of the First Circle of Arilinn. Perhaps the most powerful woman on Darkover, certainly one of the most powerful telepaths. Linked with the artificial matrix lattices of her Tower, in rapport with her Circle of telepaths, Caitlyn could command forces of unimaginable power.

Coryn shook his head, with a little smile. “I know, Caitlyn. But we are sworn to protect you, as well.”

“You may wait outside the door, then, like a paxman, and leap to my rescue, should the little mountain maid turn out to be a cat-demon in a disguise subtle enough to deceive the Veil of Arilinn and the powers of its telepaths,” she mocked him gently.

“Now go and bring the girl to me.”

Shavanni was amazed, and a little nervous. The teneresteis herself, Caitlyn of Arilinn, would see her? They had never imagined that. She had assumed that one of the Tower telepaths Domna Margali had called ‘monitors’ would see to her.

She followed Coryn Ridenow into the Tower itself, through the Veil of Arilinn that kept all but those of Comyn blood from entering. She had a moment’s qualm, wondering if the Veil might, perhaps, be designed to exclude Aldarans, but that was silly. Old feuds or not, the Comyn were so intermarried and interrelated it would be impossible to separate out one specific bloodline from another. Shavanni herself was kin to both the Rockravens and the Storns, through her mother’s family, and of course, her Aldaran blood came through Dom Gabriel’s cousin Eohain, whose mother was also a nedestro of the Ridenow of Feather Lake.

She had no need to be ashamed of her lineage here. Shavanni’s chin went up slightly as they walked through the stone corridors, up, and up again. Finally, Coryn stopped at a door, and opened it, leading the way into the room. When Shavanni had entered, Coryn stood formally between her and the woman in the carved, ornamented chair, and announced “The Lady Caitlin-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn, Keeper of the First Circle of Arilinn.” He then turned and stepped aside, and in a more normal voice, said “The Lady Shavanni Storn, vai teneresteis.” Then, with a bow to the Keeper, he left the room, shutting the door.

(OOC: Did I get the name right?)

(OOC: what book did you pull that title from? I've never seen it, and I am pretty sure I've read all of Zimmer Bradley's Darkover series.

*Leronis* I've seen. )

((OOC: It's the old high Castan tenerezu, Keeper-- see some of the Ages of Chaos books like "Two to Conquer." "Teneresteis" would be the feminine version. It's been mentioned in a couple of the later timeline books as well, but I don't have a complete set anymore. Futz around on the Darkover Ring websites, etc., there's a lot of Glossaries and language analysis sites there.))

IC:

Caitlyn smiled. "It must be a matter of very great import to bring you all the way from the Hellers, Damisela. How may Arilinn serve you?"

She could sense some level of agitation, rigidly suppressed, in the girl standing before her. Politely, she refrained from deliberately reading the girl's mind, but she was broadcasting her thoughts strongly enough that no telepath could have missed them. Something about,

"The dreams.... the dreams...."

Shavanni felt herself trembling. Once a robust, healthy young girl of the mountains, the dreams, the dreams that Domna Margali had said were laran-related, had made it difficult for her to sleep. And her stomach had become so chancy and unreliable that she had trouble keeping any food down. She had lost a good deal of weight since midwinter, when they began.

Now that she was in front of the Keeper of Arilinn, she was uncertain how to begin, but she felt… compelled to tell her everything.

“Vai leronis… My threshold sickness ended more than a year ago. It was not bad, but when… when this all began… at first, we wondered if it might not be a late attack of threshold sickness. My promised husband’s father had his leronis, Domna Margali— she was trained at Neskaya— monitor me.”

“I have… I have the old Aldaran Gift. I see pieces of the future, though never very much, or very often. And sometimes—well, often—I don’t know what they mean, or who the people I see are, or the places. But sometimes… sometimes it is very useful. Last fire season, I saw the movement of the big fire that threatened Storn— we were able to evacuate several villages and… well, it was helpful. But mostly it’s… just a jumble.”

She paused, aware that she was not telling the tale very well. But the leronis was listening patiently.

“Anyway… just before Midwinter, I began having, well, seeing… some very strange things. Huge things in the sky over Darkover. Like flying castles, or mountains, but—not like that. Not like anything I have ever seen. Big. And then, seeing people… strange people, in strange clothes. Very strange. Like nothing I’ve ever seen, not even Dry-towners or even Ya-men. It happened… the seeing, I mean—several times.”

“Then it stopped, for a while. We did not know what it meant. I can rarely tell how far away in time something is, when I see it. We just wrote it down, and went on. But about Midwinter, the… the dreams began.”

“What dreams?” prompted the Keeper. (OOC—hope it’s okay to do the small obvious things?)

“Strange dreams, very vivid. I felt…. people. Minds, like I had never touched before. Not… I could not read their thoughts, there was nothing I could understand. I knew they were thinking, but it meant nothing to me. I could only—feel them. But not their feelings, even, just that they were. It happened again and again. Soon it got to where I could never go to sleep without dreaming them.”

“I started recognizing individuals. I don’t know how to describe it—you know how individual a mental touch can be? If I met any of these people while awake, I would know them. But the dreams are… odd. They are… real. I feel them the way I can feel the future-sense. I know that somewhere, these people really exist. And… and…”

Her face grew very white. “They are getting closer. I don’t know if that means in time, or if they are coming to Aldaran from some other place on Darkover, or… I don’t know.”

She fell silent, feeling as though she’d made a complete mess of it.

OOC: Well this looks interesting, even if I don't know what half the words mean. :wink:

Caitlyn was intrigued. There was a theory current in the Domains that the old Aldaran gift had died out altogether. Now, it seemed, it was still running in the bloodlines of some of the mountain nobility. Clearly, there was a connection between the girl’s bizarre vision and the strange dreams, but only a deeper exploration would reveal it. In the mean time, she would have to contact her cousin Marcus, Regent for the young Rafael-Istvan. Without seeming to lose her attentive focus on the Storn girl at all, she mentally addressed Coryn, whom she could feel just outside the door.

Coryn, tell Melysa to prepare the Circle for tonight, to contact Thendara Castle in the relays. Let whoever is on watch at Thendara know that I will wish to speak to my cousin, the Regent.

It shall be done, Caitlyn. Coryn knew better than to enquire further, but she could feel his curiosity like a palpable wave.

In the mean time, she tilted her head slightly and regarded the girl. She did not look well, though she was pretty. She looked as though she had recently been—or might even still be, ill. Sometimes a demanding laran, uncontrolled by an untrained novice, could ravage the holder like this. The Neskaya-trained monitor was right to send the girl here. If they had time, they could give her some simple training that would teach her to better manage the power that demanded so much of her body’s energy channels.

“Damisela, if you will trust us so far, I think the best way to explore this matter further would be for you to permit me to enter a rapport with you, and then allow our monitor to help you go to sleep. That way, I can experience first-hand these dreams of yours, and perhaps perceive their sources.”

(OOC: Brilliant, I love Darkover! :) Will work on my post...)

Jemry, check your TG please.

Players interested in joining this RP please check this thread:

http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=119514&highlight=

And contact Hastur of Elhalyn.

Thanks!

It had not been easy to convince Esteban to permit her to sleep in the Tower tonight. Still suspicious of the lowland comyn, he had not wanted his promised wife to be involved in some Tower ritual that might verge on impropriety or worse. She had reassured him that only the leronis and the monitor would be permitted near her, but still he grumbled. Nevertheless, he’d had to agree when she had reminded him that his own father, Lord Aldaran, had instructed them to seek whatever help the Tower could give in restoring Shavanni’s health.

So that night, she had again been led through the Veil of Arilinn, and taken to a large, comfortable, but obviously disused bedroom. It bore signs of hasty airing and dusting, but fresh sheets and clean, well-aired fur coverlets were already on the bed. Shavanni looked around interestedly. It was very different from the interiors of mountain homes, with their preference for bright colors in hangings and carven wood panels and moldings. Still, one could not perhaps judge lowland style by an ancient Tower that had changed little since the Ages of Chaos.

One of the kyrri had brought fresh towels and soap, and tended the fire, so the room was warm and inviting. Esteban had been adamant that she must sleep fully clothed, though what protection he thought that would offer her from possibly marauding hali’imyn was difficult to imagine. The whole idea was absurd anyway. Domna Margali had told them all, many times, about the demands that matrix work laid on a Tower’s telepaths, and how little energy such work left them for sensual fulfillment beyond the Circles.

Shavanni had washed, and stretched herself on the bed, not bothering with more than one light coverlet—she still could not get used to the warmth of the lowland climate—when the chamber door opened.

The great red sun hung in the star dappled background. The Menelmacar-Ravenspire built Beowulf had moved into orbit around the planet that had been selected.
The Beowulf had been built with two main systems of propulsion. The main one was a fusion engine, but the other, which it was using now, was a light sail that spread out around it in a beautiful nimbus. It did not provide much speed, but it saved a lot of energy.
Gravitational wheels slowly turned constantly outside the vessel. Sensors were probing, and small satellites that moved into other points of orbits were transmitting information on weather, areas of habitation, and geological formations.
The launch, and the mission had been quite secret. With most of the Solar System focusing on the acquisition of Mars and the Gas Giant satellites, hardly anyone had noticed the exploration voyages of Ravenspire, Freebodnik IV--and Lavenrunz.
The journey had taken longer than they had expected. There were a series of theoretically useful planets that long range probes had discovered...but clearly several had been bypassed as unacceptable by the ship's central computer.
There were any number of possible explanations--right down the clock being wrong--but they still had work to do.
Admiral Bruno von Schiller, commander of the group of three vessels, Beowulf, Sigfried, and Freya had gruffly instructed that they

intended to try to send a long range communication back to Earth. In the meantime, they were still to consider themselves subjects of the Empire of Lavenrunz and to act accordingly. The other two vessels were scouting the rest of the solar system--which they called Cottman--and had left Beowulf to deal with the fourth planet, which looked most promising for supporting life.
A unmanned high aerial vehicle was sent down to check atmosphere. A bit thin by their standards, but not dangerously so...
"It is mostly very cold save in one or two areas, due to an abnormal tilt of the planet's axis." continued Lieutenant Groll, standing before his captain.
She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, athletically built, listening intently as she received the reports. Captain Karen von Hohenloe had been a crack fighter pilot in her time, but eventually she had been offered a chance at the Imperial Space Agency and had gone for it.
"There are scant signs of habitation." Groll continued in his rather dry way.
"But signs nevertheless?" she demanded. "How can that be?"
"Perhaps someone got here before us? Really, the Chief Engineer is correct, with all due respect, Captain. We have no idea how much time has passed."
"I see." she glanced at Lieutenant Dietrich. "Are all our shuttlecraft in working order?"
"Yes, Captain, but we will need to bring an extra fuel pod in order to take off again. They were built to be tough, but landing in atmosphere will make leaving again tricky." Dietrich had a tendency to be a strange contradiction: on the bridge her recommendations were cautious, hesitant. She was cool and brave as a lion once she was actually piloting though.
Doctor Kotzebue bowed. He was the only civilian on the bridge, but he was an important one, representing the Ministry of Science and Technology. "Captain, I would suggest a certain caution, but not overmuch. Clearly, if the people below had the capability of sending us any messages they would have. Clearly if they could prevent us from orbiting, they would have. Nevertheless, whatever sort of people they are, they are likely to be at the very least wary of our arrival."
"As usual, Doctor Kotzebue points out the bottom line: this planet we've discovered is inhabited." Karen Hohenloe said with a smile. "Very well, then. Lieutenant Dietrich, you will prepare a shuttlecraft for landing. Lieutenant Hochswender," she turned to the stocky Weapons Officer, "You will assemble on squad of Marines to accompany us."
"You are going, Captain?" inquired Groll with a lift of his eyebrows.
She looked at her first lieutenant with amusement. "Surely the senior vessel officer must lead the way to claim the planet for Lavenrunz."
However, when she had a moment alone with Doctor Kotzebue, she said quietly, "You know, I've been having the most disturbing dreams about the planet. As though there are people expecting us, or something."
He was startled. "You too?" he mused. "Most unusual. Well, I'm not a psychiatrist, Karen, but...tell me, did your dream have a woman in it?"
"Yes...but I don't remember all the details." Karen shivered. "Fear and confusion and apprehension. Well, it could be nerves."
"I wouldn't worry about it." he grinned. "When I have a chance to get my research team on the ground, and you are governor of a new world--"
"Heinrich!" she laughed. "Governor indeed...I suppose I shall, but I wil hardly be lounging in a palace."

Sometime later, with Admiral Schiller's gruff approval, the first part of the expedition was loaded onto the shuttle, which was called the Proteus.
Captain von Hohenloe, Lieutenant Hochswender, Under-Lieutenant Meyer as second pilot, Doctor Kotzebue, the Chaplain, Father Stephen, Chief Gunner's Mate Pemsel, Chief Pharmacist's Mate Ehrlich, Radio Operator 1/C Loder, and Sergeant Kammler of the Imperial Marines along with twelve others found themselves descending into the ionosphere of the planet.
It was rougher than they expected; the constant vibration and shaking of the shuttle made their teeth rattle. Hohenloe had only once faced such difficulty--riding on the edge of a typhoon. This was worse; there she had only herself--and about twelve million marks of machinery--here she had part of her crew to be concerned with.
The land itself was hard, she knew, but the rounded valley she had selected, to the south of the terrifying mountain chain that seemed to envelope half the continent, was the best she'd been able to find. Nevertheless, small pines were smouldered and crushed as the shuttle bumped and thrashed its way to a landing.
The stillness after ward had them all chuckling in relief. Father Stephen blessed them all with a wry smile on his pale face.
They stared out the windows. It was a new world.
"Columbus," said Karen von Hohenloe softly, "Had nothing on this."

(OOC: Aldaran and I worked this out together.)

Caitlyn Hastur, Keeper of the First Circle of Arilinn, and Ellana Ridenow, monitor to the First Circle, entered Shavanni Storn’s guest room on silent, slippered feet. The girl was still awake, Caitlyn had sensed that, but nothing further. She did not want to enter into a deeper telepathic rapport without preparing the girl for the experience. She smiled reassuringly.

"Damisela, this is Ellana Ridenow, the monitor of our First Circle. I would like her to monitor you before we begin, to ensure that you are physically prepared. Will you allow her to monitor you?"

Shavanni had been monitored before, she knew what to expect. “Of course, vai Leronis.”

Caitlyn smiled. “Please call me Caitlyn. I would like us to be comfortable together, it helps the rapport.”

“Yes, certainly, vai…” she gave a little self-conscious laugh. “Caitlyn.”

“And I am Ellana,” the monitor said. She was a fair-haired woman with slightly freckled skin, a bit plump, but with lovely green eyes. She moved over to the bed, and, with one hand on the insulating fabric bag at her neck that held her own matrix, began to run her other hand lightly over Shavanni’s body, an inch or so away from the surface. Her face went blank, rapt.

In her mind, she linked to Caitlyn.

”She’s been very stressed, physically… but basically healthy. Channels a little fuzzy, but I think someone’s taught her at least some basic controls. Seems to be mostly the physical weakness that is blocking the channels… ahh… there’s something here… a twisting, a knot… she’s resisting something, but she doesn’t know it. That’s contributing to the weakness, as well. She’s a stronger telepath than she suspects. Really, the girl should be in a Tower… She’ll be alright for tonight, though. After you’re done I’ll go in deep and see if I can do anything with those channels….”

At last, her eyes focused, and she smiled at Shavanni. “You have not been well, Shavanni, but I think we can help with that. You will be fine in rapport for tonight. If you like, I will relax you a little, so sleep will come more easily.”

Shavanni nodded. “I don’t sleep easily… I know I should get more sleep, but I can’t bear the dreams…” She looked up at the monitor and smiled.

Ellana nodded, and bent her head again, laying a hand an inch or so over Shavanni’s forehead, letting herself drop into the flow of energy produced by the girl’s conscious thoughts. Gently, she signaled Caitlyn, and the Keeper dropped into the rapport, a strong, smooth, comforting mental touch.

”We are together now, Shavanni… but you will lose awareness of me as you go to sleep. I will be between your conscious mind and the dreams… you may not even be aware of them.”

”That… would be so wonderful…” As Ellana’s relaxing ‘touch’ smoothed out the conscious energy flows, Shavanni began to drift.

Ellana went and got a chair for Caitlyn. It might be a wait before Shavanni’s subconscious activated whatever strange cue or link provoked the ‘dreams.’

They waited quietly, Caitlyn gently riding the drift of Shavanni’s thoughts, slowing, sinking into the warm darkness of sleep… Then faintly stirring, stringing together visual cues from the last day or so—faces—the face of Esteban, Heir to Aldaran…(something interesting there, possibly a link with that strange block in the energon channels?)… Caitlyn herself… an older woman in mountain dress, perhaps a chaperon or servant… images of Arilinn…a moment of remembered fear at the Veil…

Then these, too, slowed. There was an odd, blank spot, as though her consciousness were pausing, a sense of gathering… power gathering, pulling itself from within her body’s energy channels… Aldones! Caitlyn thought. No wonder the girl was weakening. That kind of energy should never be expended without the protection of a matrix circle!

She felt it almost like a physical leap, in rapport with Shavanni… a launching, upwards, outwards, infinitely far… beyond the discs of the moons, into star-spangled blackness, incredible depths. On, and on. But not directionless. No. They were going toward something. Being drawn toward something.

At first it was only a faint sense of something. It stayed like that, on the fringes of perceptibility, for long moments, while the sense of movement continued. Then, suddenly, with almost shocking speed, something HUGE loomed before them… they continued towards it… it was growing bigger yet, impossibly huge, bigger than a house, a castle… Impressions… Hard… metal? Complex. Energy, flowing in prodigal abundance. A huge, powerful energy source, amorphous, vast, complicated, twisting…

Then, it began to resolve itself… like a musical ensemble, different ‘notes’ of energy. Some familiar… the energies of organic consciousness, the electrical currents of life-patterns. Some bewilderingly strange, metallic, static-feeling, energy without thought or life, yet… energy… almost like the magnetic energy of Darkover’s electromagnetic fields, yet smaller, more focused, faster moving, more complex. Bursts, confused, noisy, meaningless… She could feel Shavanni’s consciousness shudder and shrink from it, the energy draining through her, and swiftly Caitlyn interposed herself, no longer a spectator, an infinitesmal reaching, picking up the energy flows, anchoring them within…

She reached out, trying to sort through the vast, chaotic tangle. There was life there. Shavanni was right, there were… people. Minds. Human minds. How could it be? She felt a shudder of strangeness, akin to fear, within herself… or was it in one of those minds.

Wordlessly, she reached out, and brought Ellana into the rapport. Ellana had the Ridenow gift, she could read feelings, communicate with non-humans, or with humans who did not speak the cahuenga or casta tongues.

“Aldones!” She felt the monitor’s shock, the recognition.

Humans. Out there. Out where? Unimaginably far. But getting closer.

(OOC--timelines getting a little mixed here. Assume landing AFTER telepathic contact...)

With the help of the leronis, Shavanni slept a deep, comfortable sleep for the first time in weeks. She woke feeling refreshed and, also for the first time in weeks-- hungry.

Of course, she had slept in her clothing, which was a bit uncomfortable. She went to the guest chamber's bathroom, and washed, brushing and re-braiding her springy strawberry-blond hair, and confining it in the copper butterfly clasp that had been Esteban's handfasting gift to her.

By the time she was done, a kyrri was waiting with breakfast. With remarkably clear hand signs, the creature made it clear that she was to eat, and then (a gesture upwards, towards the Keeper's chamber) see Caitlyn again. With an appetite, she enjoyed her warm nut-porridge.

Tag for Alton Domain

After she left the Storn girl sleeping quietly, Caitlyn mounted to the First Circle's relay room. Coryn was on duty, as was Melysa Leynier, Desideria Aillard, and Derik Ardais.

"Is Thendara expecting us?" she asked Melysa. The mechanic nodded. "Javanne Syrtis is in the relays, she will send a messenger for the Regent as soon as Coryn alerts her we are ready."

Caitlyn nodded to Coryn, who focused briefly on the matrix lattice that was glowing before him. "She has sent the messenger."

They drew together. It was not necessary to have the whole Circle involved in such a minor operation as this, but it helped conserve Caitlyn's energy to have the support of some Circle members. She took up her place in the center, wearing the loose red working robe of a Keeper. Coryn, who would act as monitor, remained sitting by the relay lattice. One by one, they dropped into the rapport.

Caitlyn gathered the threads of laran energy, performed an indescribable melding, and drew on the resultant power to reach for the relay room at Thendara Castle.

She feld Javanne Syrtis' touch first, cool and competent. "Caitlyn. We are ready. Hastur is on his way."

Slowly, the relay room itself came into focus, as though she stood there, with the slender, irregular-featured Javanne. She could feel the approaching presence of her cousin. Then he entered the relay room, linked through Javanne.

Marcus-Kieran Gabrial Alar Hastur of Hastur, Regent of the Six Domains, was a strongly-built, aging man with more physical vigor than strength of laran. Nevertheless, his shrewd insight, firm tact, and hard work had been invaluable to the Comyn Council during the minority of Rafael-Istvan, the Heir to Hastur. He believed that the less intervention the Council had to make in the day-to-day affairs of the Domains, the better, and while some of the big Guilds would have liked more active participation (each to their own benefit, of course,) he had remained firm in letting matters take their course.

He was a good military leader and a capable warrior in his own right, as he had proved during the wave of attacks by Catmen, ten years since. But he much prefered what some, rather derisively, called the "talk it to death" solution to problems.

As Javanne brought him into the rapport, he bowed. "Vai leronis, zu para servir. What brings Arilinn to the Council? Or is it a private matter, Caitlyn?"

"I am not certain, Marcus. A little of both, perhaps."

Swiftly, she outlined for him the events of the last day. He was nonplused.

"Flying things? People in the sky? Coming towards Darkover?" He could not doubt the word of the Keeper of Arilinn, but it sounded like a midwinter's tale.

"I felt them, Marcus. Human minds. But... how near or how far... impossible to say. The Storn girl has the Aldaran gift, and her time-sense moves too erratically to feel accurately. Still, it felt close in time as well as..." her thoughts seemed to thin, suddenly, then regained strength, "...space."

She could feel the Regent's sigh. "The news about Aldaran seems of more moment just now. It might seem that Dom Gabriel is sufficiently well-disposed to trust Arilinn with the girl's health. And, too, perhaps, to convey this information, in however roundabout a manner, to the Council."

"I had thought of that. On the other hand, his Heir, young Esteban, is deeply suspicious and mistrustful of comyn. You know."

She could feel his chuckle. "I do know. 'hali'imyn,' no doubt. I recall meeting his uncle on the firelines once, near Caldayth. Much the same. Still the old prejudice. Well, we cannot be certain, but it would seem to make it less likely that any of Aldaran's people are involved in all those blank-shield raids."

"I thought you should know."

"Indeed, and I am grateful, cousin. I hope you are well, and all remains well at Arilinn?" he enquired politely.

"As well as can be expected. We have finished the training of Camilla Lindir, but as yet do not have enough telepaths for a full Second Circle. Hanali Ridenow, who has been doing laran testing among the Serrais folk, has some hopes that we may find one or two there. I hope that Ellemir is well? And the children?"

"Children! Damon is rising thirteen, and will be entering the Guards as a cadet this Council season. They grow so fast... But I abuse the good Javanne's energy. We are all well, here. Many thanks, cousin, for the information." A trifle abruptly, he was gone from the rapport, disappearing from the 'room.'

Caitlyn, too, could feel Javanne beginning to tire a little. "Arilinn's thanks, kinswoman." she said, as she slid out of the rapport.

Carefully, she let each member of the Circle's energy slide from the linked power, feeling Coryn monitoring each as the contact ceased.

Alton

It had perhaps not been wise to travel on to Arilinn once all crimson faded from the skies, replaced by violet and the glimmer of stars.
Though High Summer kept the skies clear, it grew steadily colder with the deepening of night. As the small Alton party progressed towards the distant light of the tower they’d had to dismount, for their safety and that of the horses. Forcing Jeran to admit that it would take them longer still to reach the safety of Arilinn than he had anticipated.

But he said nothing and walked some distance ahead of the party, it was clear even to a non-telepath that he wanted no company.
Alone was how Jeran Syrtis-Alton liked to be, now that Ysabet and Dartan were gone from his life.
Stoically he erased all thought of them least Lirielle pick up a stray thought and focused on the journey itself and the distant tower.

As though summoned the young girl drew closer, tentative and not truly wanting to disturb him yet filled with unvoiced questions that tickled against his mind.

“Yes Lirielle?” he sighed. She was young still and did not know how to control her laran. He’d touched on the very reason why they travelled from Armida to Arilinn and it softened the sharp edge of his thoughts. He gazed at her not unkindly, voice gentler as he added. “What is it that you want to ask me little sister?”
Automatically his fingers stole towards the matrix at his throat, felt it cool even through the silken pouch. Lirielle followed the gesture with narrowed eyes and he could feel her anticipation; soon she too would have one of the starstones for her own.

“What is like to train at Arilinn?” she finally asked, voicing one of the many thoughts that flickered through her mind. Will I be accepted? Will they want me there? Can I truly be a Leronis? And the most hesitant thought of all, flickering barely among the others and Jeran mused silently, possibly badly shielded by the girl’s untrained mind. Can I be accepted by Caitlyn for training as a Keeper?

It was right to approach such a thing lightly and he found himself admiring the nedestro daughter of Melor, Lord Alton.
His thoughts briefly turned to Armida and beyond to the Kilghard Hills. How did his father fare? Had there been any more of the strange raids?
He realised that Lirielle still waited his answer and set aside his musings to frame a careful reply.
“I was not long at Arilinn,” he said. “Long enough to learn the simplest of techniques and skills. Only enough I was told to control my laran.” He smiled at some pleasant memory. “I was told that my laran was great and had I not been the Alton heir, I would have been welcomed into the tower and trained for the circles.”

“Do you think my laran,” Lirielle hesitated and Jeran found himself wondering why it was so important to his nedestro sister that she be accepted into the tower. She was well loved by all at Armida.

“Is strong enough?” he completed for her, raised eyebrows that in the light would have been gold-tinctured-red. Lirielle nodded.
“You’ve the Alton donas in full measure I imagine,” he said. “But we shall see what they say at the tower.”
He did not doubt what he told her, but who knew if the child would be welcomed at Arilinn? There were other factors to be considered. Yet, now was an age when there were too few Comyn born who welcomed a secluded life in the towers and fewer still able to undergo the stringent training of a Keeper.

He glanced back at the two guardsmen, saw them walking close together. Bredu, he thought and Dartan grew large in his mind and a darkness fell over him.
Lirielle felt it and swallowed the question she’d opened her mouth to ask, fell back to leave Jeran alone with his unending sorrow.

It was close to midnight when the Alton party finally reached the lights of Arilinn tower.
“Praise Aldones the night remained clear,” Jeran murmured to himself. It was rare even in High Summer for there to be no snowfall during the night.
The Alton party passed through the great gate and Jeran signalled the guardsmen, handing one his stallion while the other quickly stepped up to Lirielle to take the reins of her steed.

http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/12052/alton_signature.jpg

The guardsman who greeted Jeran Syrtis-Alton was one who remembered him from his brief stay at the Tower.

"Welcome, vai Dom, you ride late!" he said, stepping quickly to take Jeran's horse, and gesturing to stable hands to assist the others.

"And welcome to you also, Damisela," he greeted Lirielle. A friendly nod to the guardsmen, and a jerk of the head indicated where they would find food and fire. Another guardsman was sent to tell the vai Leroni of the visitors' arrival.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were comfortable in the Strangers' Room. While they refreshed themselves with hot wine and jaco provided by the silent, gliding kyrri, Ellana Ridenow arrived.

"Jeran?" she asked tentatively. When she saw it was really him, she smiled. "Jeran! Welcome! What brings you here, so late? And who is this?" she asked, smiling at Lirielle.

Alton

Jeran rose, pleased that Ellana bore not the slightest resemblance to Ysabet.
There were too many Ridenow with similar features, but this was not one of them. Locked away in her tower, he’d only seen her during his time at Arilinn; the tower’s monitor had not even come to his di catenas wedding at Comyn Castle.
Few memories were present to link Ysabet and this elder member of her family. He could not even recall what link they shared, was Ellana an Aunt?
He shook aside the thoughts that could only lead him back into the depths of despair and focused on the duties handed to him by Lord Alton.

“Ellana, you lend us grace.” He smiled, glad that while she had commented on the lateness of his arrival there was no intended rebuke. You could have suffered if it had chanced to snow. Foolish, so foolish to risk travel by night so unnecessarily. And flickering in the very depths of his mind the secret thought he’d shielded so long even he’d forgotten it. Do you seek to follow Ysabet and Dartan into death? He brushed them all aside, barricaded them behind mental walls.

“I’ve come to appease Lord Alton, he would not have any tell him no," he said and beckoned Lirielle to his side.
“This is Lirielle Syrtis, the nedestro daughter of my father,” he smiled reassuringly at the young girl, let his hand hover above her shoulders. Hair gold and crimson, so vibrant she could not be anything but Comyn. He could feel her fear, her uncertainties and found himself wondering if he’d been right to bring her to Arilinn now. She is so young.

He looked up, smiled at Ellana though he knew it did not reach his ice-coloured eyes. “She has recently been through the threshold sickness, her talent is…significant and there’s none at Armida who can spare the time to teach her. She was to come to Arilinn in a years time, but the sickness has come soon for her.” He bit his lower lip, not wanting Lirielle to feel that somehow difficulties had arisen around her. “We face trouble in the Kilghard Hills, many are away from Armida and I myself am sent to Thendara. We hope that Arilinn will accept Lirielle now, for the training she needs to control her laran and for training as keeper by the vai leroni, as the Lord Alton promised Lady Caitlyn.”

The monitor smiled. "You are welcome, indeed, Damisela Lirielle. If you are through the threshhold sickness, it is not too soon to come to Arilinn." Her voice held great warmth and reassurance. Seemingly, she focused on the girl, but at the same time she was aware of a partially-barriered tension in Jeran. The Altons were such strong telepaths, it often took considerable training and practice for them to be certain when their barriers were fully effective.

Politely, she left him his privacy, but mentally she alerted Melysa to see to comfortable guest quarters in the Tower, baths, and food.

"You are both weary, perhaps wearier than you know. Come, I will take you to guest rooms. There will be hot baths, food, and beds ready. Tomorrow is a better time for more discussion on this matter. Caitlyn is in the relays tonight-- some questions of transporting blank matrix stone from Neskaya. She will be able to examine you tomorrow, Lirielle, to see what training will be most appropriate for you."

She looked at Jeran. "We are deeply grateful to Lord Alton, of course. A girl who is even willing to consider training as a Keeper is a great treasure. But the final disposition on the matter must rest on her innate abilities and suitability for the work."

"But regardless of the specifics," she said to Lirielle, "we will be very happy to welcome you among us as a sister. It is fascinating work from any standpoint."

She led them through the Veil, and put them into the Melysa's hands. "I am wanted in the Circle. I hope to have the opportunity to greet you again tomorrow, kinsman, when you are rested and refreshed."

Jeran woke early, some shimmering wisp of knowledge at the precipice of his thoughts; hazed enough by the transition between wake and sleep to be almost indecipherable.
Was it a touch of premonition? He rose from the bed, yawning; stretching muscles that had tensed. He’d glimpsed something, that was certain and whatever it was it had left his dreaming mind uneasy.
He reached for the images but they fled his mental fingertips, vanished moments later leaving only a vague sense of disquiet.

Knowing enough about Arilinn from his time here, Jeran made his way to the bathroom. Languishing in the tub as though trying to wash away the darkest thoughts that had claimed him on the night ride to the tower.
“Ysabet,” he whispered. “Dartan.” Why was I so far away when you both needed me?
Returning to his chambers and dressing in the colours of his domain, Jeran sent a soft questing thought towards Lirielle; found her just rising from sleep.
Any curious dreams Little Sister?
Her reply was a strange mix of half-formed thoughts and emotions that bleed into his mind forcing him to raise barriers against her.
Training would teach her to master the power that had wakened within her and he wondered how great her strength would be when combined with the skilled use of a matris.

When Lirielle joined him, cheeks somewhat flushed with welling excitement and embarrassment at her earlier lapse of control.
“Will the Keeper see us now?” she asked, voice hushed as though she stood within the rhu fead.
“I doubt that Caitlyn is awake yet,” he replied. “The towers work late into the night, when no stray telepathic thoughts might trouble their intricate work.” He turned towards the mess hall. “We may as well get supper now, see if father’s premonition spoke true and the other guests at Arilinn tower are Comyn of Aldaran.”
He lead his nedestro sister through the ancient corridors of the tower, finding that his feet carried him even when his mind continued to probe at the lost premonition that had shaken him from sleep.

http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/12052/alton_signature.jpg

(OOC: Sorry, work has been eating me alive this week...)

Coryn Ridenow and Desideria Aillard, weary from a night's work in the Circles, were already eating when the Altons joined them.

Coryn looked up and recognized Jeran. His brow furrowed. He should know the man... one of his father's kinswomen had married an Alton. Was this he? Coryn was too tired to rack his brain for the details. He contented himself with smiling at the two, and nodding a welcome.

Desideria was more forthcoming. A Technician of many years' experience, she remembered Jeran from his training period. And Caitlyn had already informed her about the girl Lirielle. She looked the child over. Still practically a child, although apparently well through threshhold sickness. Well, Desia had her instructions from Caitlyn, and although she didn't like them much, she understood the necessity.

She addressed Jeran. "S'dia shaya, Dom Jeran. I understand that your sister wishes to be tested for suitability to train as a Keeper? In that case, she should remain in her chamber until sent for." Although she seemed to be coldly ignoring the girl, actually her awareness was focused on Lirielle and her response to this.

The earliest stages of the hellishly demanding training required of Keepers required them to remain entirely aloof from all human contact except that of their teachers, who deliberately maintained an arms-length, rather formal relationship with them. The dreadful isolation required of a Keeper could break the mind of a woman who was not sufficiently resilient to deal with it. Testing that resilience early was one aspect of the examination Lirielle would be undergoing in more depth later today.

Merris had woken Shavanni early. Esteban was impatient to be on the road. Yesterday, after waking in the chamber in Arilinn Tower, she had spent some time with the monitor, Elanna. The woman had shown her, using another technician from the Tower Circle, how the channels that carried laran were arranged, and why Shavanni was having such a hard time sleeping and eating.

She wasn't sure she could duplicate what the monitor had taught her, but it had certainly helped. She had felt as though she could... but how could she tell for sure? In any case, just a few days' real sleep and food, even if it was on the road, would be wonderful.

Later that day Caitlyn had sent for her again, and discussed the dreams with her. For some reason, she now felt much less anxious about them, and although she had dreamed again last night, it was different-- as though, rather than something huge hurtling towards her, there was something waiting quietly, just out of sight somewhere. Still rather frightening, definitely alien. But not that awful feeling of something approaching.

Merris was fussing over her pack, trying to hurry her. Esteban must be very impatient. She sighed. She tried to like Esteban. She knew it was her duty, since they were to be married. And he wasn't a bad man. He was handsome, he was an excellent swordsman and very brave, he had been carefully educated by his father to look after his Domain conscientiously...

But for whatever reason, Shavanni just couldn't feel genuine warmth for her promised husband. A conscious, disciplined respect was the best she could do. Oh, well.

"I'm not leaving without breakfast, no matter what Esteban says," she told Merris. "You can just go and tell him that. I've missed too many meals lately, and we have a long ride ahead of us." She made her way down to the big common-room where the meals were served, and paused on the threshhold, surprised. She had expected to be the only guest, with maybe one or two of the Tower telepaths. But there seemed to be other visitors present.

She drew her cloak modestly about her, but, as was the mountain habit, gazed curiously at all of those present, even the men. "S'dia shaya," she murmured a little diffidently, sitting down and nodding to one of the servants to bring her a bowl of nut-porridge.

>BUMP<

Lirielle had promised herself there’d be no tears, no display of emotions.
She’d not come to Arilinn Tower completely unaware of the difficulties she faced. There were so many that had failed the towers, some of whom she knew. They had spoken of pain and of suffering, yet none of them could hide the look of sorrow in their eyes.
She long learned to read that look, regret.
Had sworn to herself that it would not be her fate, but the little fears always found their way into heart; spiders spinning silvery threads of despair.

Yet now, when she desired most to be cool and calm, emotion threatened to spill forth; a rush of tears.
She knew that her eyes would soon cloud up, that the knot in her throat demanded that her sobs be given voice. There was none of the resolve left to her, but somehow she managed to turn; not glancing at Jeran for reassurance. I have left the only family I know.
She could hear again the sadness in her father’s voice, he’d not wanted her to choose this fate. But he’d accepted and now she was cutting the final bonds between herself and everyone else.
It hurts, she thought with surprise. Pinched herself, twisting the skin to drive away the more potent pain of emotion. This is the only pain there is. This is the only pain there is. She let the mantra roll through her mind as she tried to fashion a barrier against her heart. If I can learn to ward my thoughts, I can learn to ward my heart.

At last she was out of the chamber, no one could see her tears now; but still she fought them. Fought them all the way to her back to the guest rooms, swallowing her sobs until she hold them back no more.
http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/12052/lirielle.jpg
Lirielle

Now alone in the common-room, Jeran frowned.
Lirielle had provided distraction from darker thoughts, she’d been a crutch of sorts against the overwhelming pain that still suffused him.
If only he could barricade himself from the outside world, join the towers and apprentice as technician or mechanic.

“S'dia shaya,” he narrowed his eyes, tried to recall the faded memories of his days in Arilinn. Not so long ago, yet almost like a dream of another life to Jeran now. “Domna Desideria, I understand the need for such harshness, but forgive me if I disapprove. She is too young.” Father should never have let her come.

He glanced at the many empty tables, but not wanting to brood he asked Desideria, “May I join you?” Noticed the arrival of another guest and thoughtfully studied her. Aldaran colours, then father’s premonition was true.
He’d often wondered at the subtle thread of flash premonition that wove itself through the Alton lineage. Had it come in some distant time from the mingling of blood between the houses of Aldaran and Alton?

He fingered his matris, felt the lights within flare up enough to glimmer through the silk faintly and quickly dropped the pouch under his shirt.

What was wrong with him? Aside from the deeply entrenched sorrow, he knew that there lay something more; something deeper than he dared search. His barriers had never been so fragile. Is it a death wish? Is it?

He’d avoided glancing at Desideria’s companion, perhaps subconsciously he’d already known what he would see. But as he turned back to their table his eyes locked on the man and his breath caught in his throat. Ysabeth!
They shared the Ridenow eyes and now he was drowning in the pain of her loss and he did not know how to pull himself out.

Shavanni was enjoying her nut-porridge, but not so much that she was unaware of what was going on in the room. When she heard Desideria's cold dismissal of the little girl, she looked up in surprise, for her experience with the Tower folk so far had shown them warmly courteous, if a trifle distant, to all.

The girl's kinsman went to sit down by Desideria, perhaps to remonstrate with her. Now that he was out of the direct line of her gaze, she felt more comfortable looking him over. It would not have been an issue in the mountains, where modesty required woman to maintain the reality of strict chastity, rather than the exaggerated forms of these plainsfolk, but Domna Margali had been very insistent on the point of not meeting the eyes of anyone male. "It is practically the equivalent of a direct invitation to be discourteous!" she said.

Shavanni kept her thoughts--about what kinds of behavior made such silly customs necessary--to herself.

The man wore Alton colors, and wrapped an indefinable air of bleak endurance around himself like a cloak. Shavanni wondered if it were her imagination, or an unexpected streak of laran contact, or whether he was really projecting that aura so clearly it was almost a shout. She concentrated on her nut-porridge, to give them the maximum possible privacy.

She was almost done when Esteban practically stormed into the room. "Shavanni! I said I wanted to get an early start, and now it's hours past sunrise." He stood beside her, hands on his hips, his mouth set in an angry line.

She looked up at him, faced again with the irritating choice of placating him or being honest. As ever, she tried to steer a middle way. "I am sorry for the delay, my promised husband. I will be able to travel faster and farther with a good breakfast inside me." Her demeanor was deferential. Setting up Esteban's back would not add any pleasantness to the return journey.

She finished her porridge and handed the empty bowl to one of the servants with a smile. Rising, she approached Coryn Ridenow, and said, "My thanks, vai Dom, for Arilinn's help. And the thanks of Lord Aldaran, also. Your hospitality and care have been a great gift. Pray allow us to return it sometime, if any of your folk ever come to the mountains."

Given the state of things between Aldaran and the rest of the comyn, not to mention the self-imposed isolation of the Tower folk, this was a meaningless offer from a practical standpoint, but in mountain custom it had great significance, and Shavanni meant it sincerely.

Esteban, recalled to his manners, also bowed stiffly. "It is so. We are in Arilinn's debt." he acknowledged formally, and tried not to make it sound as grudging as he felt. Such an acknowledgment was not made lightly by any of the folk of the Hellers, and he was now in honor bound to repay the debt by some form of aid or hospitality, should the Arilinn folk choose to claim it.

He almost hustled his promised wife out of the room, and minutes later, they were taking courteous leave of the guardsmen and riding forth from Arilinn.

They made good time across the plains. As they rode, the villages and clusters of houses grew fewer and further apart. They'd find more villages in the foothills, where the runoff from the many streams and springs made the land more fertile, but here in the margin between the true plains and the hills the land was quite empty, except for a few resinwood forests.

It was with some astonishment, then, that they heard Brynar, the sharpest-eyed of the lookouts in their escort, call "Dom Esteban! There are people ahead! And... and.. And a thing?! A house? No, it's not a house... "

They were already reining in, and Esteban rode to the front of the group, by the banner-bearer and the lookout. He did not have good distance-vision, but he could definitely see some dark spots ahead at the edge of the forest. He couldn't make them out clearly, though. "Can you see any banners? Colors? Horses?"

Brynar, a sergeant of long experience (and long sight) did not know how to describe what he was seeing. "No, Dom Esteban, no banners. Not even any colors that I can make out. Perhaps a party of forge folk...? But there are no mines this far south. They're... odd-looking. And the, the thing, well, that's... it's big. Bigger than a shyling hut, certainly. Perhaps a party of woodmen, since so many trees are down, but if so, they are less skilled than any woodmen I have ever seen. The trees lie all whichways. There are many of them... perhaps twenty or so." Their own party numbered eleven--Esteban, Shavanni, Merris, Captain Beltran; Ragal, Esteban's body servant; Hedren the banner-bearer, and five guardsmen.

By this time, Shavanni had grown impatient, and in spite of Merris' anxious protests, she rode forward. She had excellent long-sight, and as she sat there on her horse, gazing at the tiny figures in the distance... and the not-so-tiny thing among them, suddenly they came into a sharp internal focus. There would be a woman among them, she knew. With fair hair tinged with copper--but she was no comyn. And others...

With shock draining the blood from her face, she sat in utter stillness. Merris caught sight of her white face. "My lady, what is it?" The sharp concern in her voice caught Esteban's ear, he turned and saw Shavanni's gaze fixed on the figures in the distance, her eyes blindly intent and her face ashen.

"Shavanni! What is it! Are you ill? Merris!" He gestured the woman forward, and manuevered his horse around next to hers, ready to catch her if she should faint.

As Merris rode up, Shavanni seemed to come back to herself. A little of her color returned. She shook her head, and refocused her eyes, seeing Esteban next to her and Merris approaching. "What? What is it? Oh... No, I am alright, Esteban. Thank you, Merris. I was... looking at the... the strangers."

She had started to use the commonest cahuenga term for 'stranger,' a word which carried slightly negative, even hostile overtones. But even as she was speaking, she changed it to a more formal, polite term.

"They are directly in our path, are they not?" She asked. She knew that beyond that little valley there was a streambed which provided easy passage through the rather rocky, difficult terrain just beyond. They could go around, past the Hastur estate of Edelweiss, but it would mean an extra day on their journey to pick up the road that linked Storn with the lowland hills.

Brynar, who had been studying the distant figures carefully, reached an astonishing conclusion. "Dom Esteban! They have no weapons!"

"What?" Esteban again wheeled his horse around, instinctively ranging up beside Brynar, who had now been joined by Captain Beltran on the other side, but of course he could see no better than before. "No weapons, are you certain?"

Brynar nodded. "Unless they have taken them off... No swords, not even a knife. Not even any hunting weapons. No bows."

Beltran was studying them carefully. Although he could not make them out as sharply as Brynar, there was something... organized... about their movements that made them seem armed. But Brynar was right, there were no swords visible.

Shavanni urged her horse forward beside Esteban's. "Well, if they have no arms, they can hardly be a threat. Besides, we bear the Aldaran House banner. What kind of fools would bring trouble upon themselves by giving insult to that? I thought you wanted to make it to Cleartrees village by nightfall?"

She spoke with unaccustomed impatience, for suddenly something inside her was surging with a strange, eager curiousity. She simply had to see the strangers closely. Were they the people from her dream?

Esteban's first reaction was an instinctive opposition to Shavanni's assertiveness, but he recognized the sense of her words. On the other hand... His father had told him, 'Rely on Beltran, my son. He's served in the lowlands and knows their tricky ways. And he has a natural instinct for trouble that can only be acquired with years of experience.' He looked over at the Captain. "Beltran?"

The old Captain was sharply conscious of his most important duty-- to protect the Heir to Aldaran and his promised wife. And his soldier's instinct bade him avoid the unknown under such circumstances, however eagerly he might have sought it out in other conditions. Still, the girl was right. And the extra day on the trail would not be appreciated.

He looked over the men. All of them, even Ragal, the young banner-bearer, were seasoned, effective men, handy in any kind of interesting situation.

"I see no harm in staying on our trail, Dom Esteban. But Damisela Shavanni and Merris should return to the back, with Kerris and Trenor."

Esteban nodded, and Shavanni mutely complied. They started off again. For a while the lay of the land hid the strangers from them-- and them from the strangers. When they topped the slight rise at the edge of the valley, however, they were much closer. The two parties could not avoid seeing one another quite clearly.

The Aldaran party, without discussion among themselves and almost simultaneously, reined in their horses and came to a dead stop as they surveyed the strangers and their thing.

Desia watched him shrewdly as he approached, and sat.

"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Jeran. She is too young. She is your nedestro sister? What is your father thinking of, to send her to a Tower so young?"

She shook her head ruefully. "Ignore that, Jeran. It's not for me to question Lord Alton's actions. It's only that... Well, you know." Her slight shrug was a reference to her own stubborn refusal to be Keeper-trained. It still rankled among some of the comyn nobility, who were bitterly conscious of an aging Keeper at Dalereuth, and a mechanic's Circle at Tramontana.

She brooded a little, to keep him company. "It's ridiculous, you know. I can do a Keeper's work."

She eyed him again. "Forgive me, Jeran. I do not mean to intrude on your privacy, but you should really remain with us for a few days, and let Elanna monitor you. You are not well."

Jeran sighed, sank into a chair at their table; head falling forward into upraised hands.
“Then it is that noticeable?” He closed his eyes and in the dark glimpsed Ysabet laughing and his head snapped up. He tried to swallow his panic, felt his heart racing in his chest. Oh Ysabet. Stammering he spoke on, without real hope that the episode had gone unnoticed by Desideria. “I noticed that Elana seemed to be paying me greater heed than Lirielle. I thought it merely my imagination, or perhaps I willed it so.”
If my condition is so readily noticeable here, it will be broadcast for all and sundry at Comyn Castle. Dare I go to Council in this condition?

He blinked, realised that Desideria had not only spoken about him.
“Lirielle’s mother is somewhat a mystery. If Lord Alton knows, then he guards it very carefully indeed. But she is his acknowledged child and there is enough of the Alton donas to make it plain to any comyn born that she is so.” He shook his head. “Father dotes on her since Arbella and he have become estranged.” The loss of one daughter is enough. When had Lord Alton confided in him? Was it after Ysabet and Dartan’s death? “Had the choice been mine, Lirielle would be here only for training in the use of her laran and little more.”

He signalled for breakfast, looked away from Desideria as he mumbled, “I cannot stay. I am needed at Council. The Alton Domain must be represented and…and…something significant is in the air.” He frowned, wondered if it was a touch of premonition or simply his own attempt to give meaning and import to his decision.

The great red sun hung in the star dappled background. The Menelmacar-Ravenspire built Beowulf had moved into orbit around the planet that had been selected.
The Beowulf had been built with two main systems of propulsion. The main one was a fusion engine, but the other, which it was using now, was a light sail that spread out around it in a beautiful nimbus. It did not provide much speed, but it saved a lot of energy.
Gravitational wheels slowly turned constantly outside the vessel. Sensors were probing, and small satellites that moved into other points of orbits were transmitting information on weather, areas of habitation, and geological formations.
The launch, and the mission had been quite secret. With most of the Solar System focusing on the acquisition of Mars and the Gas Giant satellites, hardly anyone had noticed the exploration voyages of Ravenspire, Freebodnik IV--and Lavenrunz.
The journey had taken longer than they had expected. There were a series of theoretically useful planets that long range probes had discovered...but clearly several had been bypassed as unacceptable by the ship's central computer.
There were any number of possible explanations--right down the clock being wrong--but they still had work to do.
Admiral Bruno von Schiller, commander of the group of three vessels, Beowulf, Sigfried, and Freya had gruffly instructed that they

intended to try to send a long range communication back to Earth. In the meantime, they were still to consider themselves subjects of the Empire of Lavenrunz and to act accordingly. The other two vessels were scouting the rest of the solar system--which they called Cottman--and had left Beowulf to deal with the fourth planet, which looked most promising for supporting life.
A unmanned high aerial vehicle was sent down to check atmosphere. A bit thin by their standards, but not dangerously so...
"It is mostly very cold save in one or two areas, due to an abnormal tilt of the planet's axis." continued Lieutenant Groll, standing before his captain.
She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, athletically built, listening intently as she received the reports. Captain Karen von Hohenloe had been a crack fighter pilot in her time, but eventually she had been offered a chance at the Imperial Space Agency and had gone for it.
"There are scant signs of habitation." Groll continued in his rather dry way.
"But signs nevertheless?" she demanded. "How can that be?"
"Perhaps someone got here before us? Really, the Chief Engineer is correct, with all due respect, Captain. We have no idea how much time has passed."
"I see." she glanced at Lieutenant Dietrich. "Are all our shuttlecraft in working order?"
"Yes, Captain, but we will need to bring an extra fuel pod in order to take off again. They were built to be tough, but landing in atmosphere will make leaving again tricky." Dietrich had a tendency to be a strange contradiction: on the bridge her recommendations were cautious, hesitant. She was cool and brave as a lion once she was actually piloting though.
Doctor Kotzebue bowed. He was the only civilian on the bridge, but he was an important one, representing the Ministry of Science and Technology. "Captain, I would suggest a certain caution, but not overmuch. Clearly, if the people below had the capability of sending us any messages they would have. Clearly if they could prevent us from orbiting, they would have. Nevertheless, whatever sort of people they are, they are likely to be at the very least wary of our arrival."
"As usual, Doctor Kotzebue points out the bottom line: this planet we've discovered is inhabited." Karen Hohenloe said with a smile. "Very well, then. Lieutenant Dietrich, you will prepare a shuttlecraft for landing. Lieutenant Hochswender," she turned to the stocky Weapons Officer, "You will assemble on squad of Marines to accompany us."
"You are going, Captain?" inquired Groll with a lift of his eyebrows.
She looked at her first lieutenant with amusement. "Surely the senior vessel officer must lead the way to claim the planet for Lavenrunz."
However, when she had a moment alone with Doctor Kotzebue, she said quietly, "You know, I've been having the most disturbing dreams about the planet. As though there are people expecting us, or something."
He was startled. "You too?" he mused. "Most unusual. Well, I'm not a psychiatrist, Karen, but...tell me, did your dream have a woman in it?"
"Yes...but I don't remember all the details." Karen shivered. "Fear and confusion and apprehension. Well, it could be nerves."
"I wouldn't worry about it." he grinned. "When I have a chance to get my research team on the ground, and you are governor of a new world--"
"Heinrich!" she laughed. "Governor indeed...I suppose I shall, but I wil hardly be lounging in a palace."

Sometime later, with Admiral Schiller's gruff approval, the first part of the expedition was loaded onto the shuttle, which was called the Proteus.
Captain von Hohenloe, Lieutenant Hochswender, Under-Lieutenant Meyer as second pilot, Doctor Kotzebue, the Chaplain, Father Stephen, Chief Gunner's Mate Pemsel, Chief Pharmacist's Mate Ehrlich, Radio Operator 1/C Loder, and Sergeant Kammler of the Imperial Marines along with twelve others found themselves descending into the ionosphere of the planet.
It was rougher than they expected; the constant vibration and shaking of the shuttle made their teeth rattle. Hohenloe had only once faced such difficulty--riding on the edge of a typhoon. This was worse; there she had only herself--and about twelve million marks of machinery--here she had part of her crew to be concerned with.
The land itself was hard, she knew, but the rounded valley she had selected, to the south of the terrifying mountain chain that seemed to envelope half the continent, was the best she'd been able to find. Nevertheless, small pines were smouldered and crushed as the shuttle bumped and thrashed its way to a landing.
The stillness after ward had them all chuckling in relief. Father Stephen blessed them all with a wry smile on his pale face.
They stared out the windows. It was a new world.
"Columbus," said Karen von Hohenloe softly, "Had nothing on this."
Earlier, the Lavenrunzians had busied themselves making sure the fires were out--the trees were so full of pitch, Doctor Kotzebue had noted, that they would go up like torches if people weren't careful. He immediately began to oversee the little group of scientists and technicians present with his usual firm but avuncular manner.
Communications specialist Loder got in touch with the ship, telling them that things were satisfactory.

The marines got to work on getting the All Terrain Exploratory Vehicles ready. These were essentially a cross between an ATV and a fast attack vehicle; they had big wheels that could master the roughest terrain, but also carried light weapons and a metal mesh that could be rolled down.

but later...
Captain Karen von Hohenloe looked through the rangefinder along with Sergeant Kammler and Lieutenant Hochswender.
"They're very primitively armed." noted Hochswender. His demeanor was wary but confident. After all, what could savages do, faced with the G-211 assault weapon? It didn't look like much--the bullpup configuration made it look almost like a fancy toy--but it carried a big magazine and with caseless ammunition and an electrical charge it could be fired in almost any atmosphere--with minor adjustments. It also had an over/under grenade launcher.
"Unless they act with overt hostility, do nothing." said Captain Hohenloe quietly.
The others could not help but gather around, a bit nervous and slightly in awe of what might occur...
They all wore navy blue, brass buttoned greatcoats, which ironically apart from full space gear was still the best that could be produced for chilly weather. Karen had often enough been grateful for one on deck watch on a ship in raging Antarctic seas. The officers stood out with their gold braid rings on their sleeves and the gilt on their buttons. The marines stood at parade rest, watching in different directions, disciplined and cool, assault weapons held with deceptive casualness.
Captain Hohenloe could not help thinking Please, dear Lord...let me do better than Columbus... as she stepped forward and raised her right hand, hoping that in this alien place it was recognized as a sign of peace.

Esteban and Beltran were side-by-side at the front, with the Aldaran banner directly behind them and a couple of the guardsmen flanking and slightly behind that, followed by Ragal and another guardsman, then Shavanni and Merris, and finally the last two guardsmen.

Beltran muttered “Renunciates? I’ve never seen one in such weird garb.”

Esteban shrugged. He had no real use for the Sisterhood, but knew they were valuable in their way. So long as they didn’t try to corrupt any of the women of his household, of course. But his greeting, in the most common plains version of cahuenga, was polite. “Greetings, Mestra. What brings you to the Khilgard Hills and the borders of Aldaran’s Domain?”

The heir to a great Domain, raised to authority all his life, bearing the indefinable stamp of comyn, Esteban came by his authoritative presence honestly. He had also fought and won a number of duels, led his father’s troops in combat against well-armed bandits and raiders, commanded fire lines, and sat as his father’s deputy to dispense justice among the small villages and holdings in the mountains. While his laran was only rudimentary, he was nevertheless able to sense something quite indefinably different about these strangers, even apart from their bizarre attire and strange artifacts.

Shavanni was staring at the woman, transfixed. She knew this woman. She moved her horse forward a step and to the side, to get a clearer view, leaning forward slightly. Behind her, she could hear Kerris say to Trenor, “Is that thing metal?

Merris murmured a trifle nervously, “My lady…” Shavanni ignored her. She looked beyond the woman. There, among the watchers… others she knew. And she knew just as certainly that they did not speak cahuenga, or even casta. Yet she sensed the woman’s gesture was one of friendly intent, a universal, ‘See? No weapon’ offered as an earnest of good will.

“She is not a Renunciate,” she said quietly, but with sufficient volume to be heard by Beltran, at least, who glanced briefly over his shoulder.

The sounds in the newly made clearing seemed particularly sharp; the creaking of saddle leather, the moan of wind in the pines, the faint hum of the power plant of the shuttle.
Karen felt the words spoken by the man were familiar--it sounded rather like one of the romance languages...none of which she was truly familiar with.
She said in response, in Lavenrunzian, "Good day. I do not understand you...I am Captain Karen von Hohenloe, of ISA Beowulf." she glanced at Hochswender, who understood, and turned--slowly, so as not to startle the strangers, to the members of the scientific crew who were present.
"Does anyone understand this man?" he asked quietly.

The Aldaran banner—red and yellow, with a black eagle centered upon it (the Darkovans could not know that it was a harkening back to a banner that had once graced an Imperial House on Earth) flapped against its pole. Beltran and Esteban again exchanged glances.

“No civilized tongue I have ever heard…” Esteban said. “Beltran? You have been to the Drytowns, to the far coasts…?” He returned to the mountain dialect of the cahuenga.

The Captain shook his head. “No, I cannot understand a word. But…” he made a handsign to one of the flanking guards, who moved his horse just a step or so forward and scanned the strangers closely, while Beltran momentarily allowed his attention to stray elsewhere.

“Damisela Shavanni, you say she is not a Renunciate? How do you know? Have you seen anything like this before?”

Emboldened, with a glance at the frowning Esteban, Shavanni nudged her horse forward another step or two. Her startlingly blue eyes widened a little, and she nodded. “Y-yes… I have…”

Esteban slewed right around in the saddle, and gaped at her. “What? Are these Storn folk or Storn visitors?” He could not comprehend the notion that the Lord of Storn would encourage such outlandish visitors without discussing the matter with his overlord.

Shavanni shook her head, the sun gleaming on the lights of red in her dark hair. “No, they have never visited Storn, to my knowledge. In fact…” she drew a breath. “They have never visited Darkover before. I think….” She bit her lip. “I think they come from up there!” She turned and pointed to the sky where, later, the moon Mormallor would rise high and pale.

Esteban’s first instinct was to tell her to stop spinning crazy tales, but he remembered what she had told him about the dreams, and how seriously the Arilinn folk had taken them. “From the sky?” he said skeptically. “What, is this the Blessed Cassilda returned to us? Aldones. Lord of Light?” There was satire in his tone. “Strange visitors from the sky, indeed, to look so much like ordinary men.”

Again, Shavanni shook her head. “No, my promised husband. They are men and women, even as we are. But… but somehow, they come from the sky.”

Both the Captain and the heir to Aldaran were utterly nonplussed. “Well, can you understand them, Damisela?” asked Beltran. “Perhaps with laran?” He knew Esteban’s promised wife was considered extraordinarily gifted in that area.

“If they do not speak any tongue we know, they cannot think in any tongue we know, Captain. I can sense… feelings, sensations… only a little. Perhaps Domna Margali could understand them. She has the Ridenow donas.”

Esteban glanced back uneasily at the strangers—strangers from the sky. He frowned. “Do you… Can you sense any ill intent?”

Shavanni considered. She directed her mind to the fair-haired woman, who had been most familiar to her, trying to brush lightly over the surface thoughts and feelings, without intruding too much, which would be rude. “Only… only a great excitement. I cannot tell the nature of it, but I do not think it is evil in nature.”

Beltran frowned. Esteban’s initial greeting to them had been somewhat liberally interpreted. They were not, actually, on the borders of Aldaran, although they were close to the Darriell manor of Brokenvale, and the Darriells of Brokenvale were the southernmost vassals of Aldaran. Technically, they were probably still on the land of some Elhalyn vassal, but no one kept too scrupulous a track of these unused areas. He looked at Esteban. “Perhaps we should invite them to Aldaran, then, and see if Domna Margali can divine their business?” He looked them over, closer scrutiny confirming their earlier conclusion—the strangers bore no weapons. Many peculiar artifacts, but no weapons.

Esteban looked surprised. “Invite them to Aldaran? But… why?”

Beltran nodded toward the largest of the objects, some kind of house or shelter, apparently, since people had gone in and out of it. “Look at it. It’s metal.”

Esteban’s gaze snapped to the thing. He blinked. It certainly wasn’t wood or stone, or clay brick, or any other material he could put a name to. It might be metal, but it was hard to imagine that much metal in one place.

“Perhaps you’re right. But how…?” He shrugged slightly, and turned back to the strangers, with a smile, making a gesture with both hands spread and brows raised, to signify that he could not understand them. Then he gestured to the party grouped around him, and said clearly (as to a child or an idiot,) “Aldaran.” He pointed to the banner. “See? Aldaran.” He pointed over the hills, in the direction of Aldaran Castle. “Aldaran Castle.” Then he made a gesture that encompassed the woman and those people standing immediately around her. “Aldaran. Come.” He pointed again in the direction of the Castle.

“My promised husband, they have no horses.” Shavanni pointed out deferentially.

“Nonsense. They must have some means of transportation. Perhaps their horses are in that thing. Maybe it’s a stable.” He continued to look amiably at the strangers.

Desia shook her head. "You'll do the Council much more good if you've sorted out some of the stress you're under," she pointed out tartly. "However, it's your affair."

"There is somthing in the air, indeed. I have a message from Caitlyn. She would like to see you after she interviews Lirielle. I believe she wishes you to bear a message to the Council."


Caitlyn stood outside Lirielle's door, gently sensing the girl's presence, and the efforts she was exerting to maintain her equilibrium. A promising sign. But there was more to being a Keeper than understanding the benefits of equilibrium.

"Elanna..." She alerted the monitor. "I am going to interview the girl. Join us in a little while, please."

She felt the monitor's acquiescence. For this interview, Caitlyn had quite deliberately foregone the Keeper's formal robes for her plain red working robe, unadorned and utilitarian. She had rested, a little, after the work of the Circle during the night, but had not bothered to make an elaborate toilette. Her hair was simply caught back in an intricately-tooled copper butterfly clasp. Yet the unmistakable aura of a Keeper provided her with a dignity that no outward adornments could possibly have conveyed.

She let her thoughts project sufficiently that the girl must be aware of her presence outside the door, and felt a sudden jolt of apprehension, followed by determination, in response. Opening the door, she entered Lirielle's room.

The Aldaran banner—red and yellow, with a black eagle centered upon it (the Darkovans could not know that it was a harkening back to a banner that had once graced an Imperial House on Earth) flapped against its pole. Beltran and Esteban again exchanged glances.

“No civilized tongue I have ever heard…” Esteban said. “Beltran? You have been to the Drytowns, to the far coasts…?” He returned to the mountain dialect of the cahuenga.

The Captain shook his head. “No, I cannot understand a word. But…” he made a handsign to one of the flanking guards, who moved his horse just a step or so forward and scanned the strangers closely, while Beltran momentarily allowed his attention to stray elsewhere.

“Damisela Shavanni, you say she is not a Renunciate? How do you know? Have you seen anything like this before?”

Emboldened, with a glance at the frowning Esteban, Shavanni nudged her horse forward another step or two. Her startlingly blue eyes widened a little, and she nodded. “Y-yes… I have…”

Esteban slewed right around in the saddle, and gaped at her. “What? Are these Storn folk or Storn visitors?” He could not comprehend the notion that the Lord of Storn would encourage such outlandish visitors without discussing the matter with his overlord.

Shavanni shook her head, the sun gleaming on the lights of red in her dark hair. “No, they have never visited Storn, to my knowledge. In fact…” she drew a breath. “They have never visited Darkover before. I think….” She bit her lip. “I think they come from up there!” She turned and pointed to the sky where, later, the moon Mormallor would rise high and pale.

Esteban’s first instinct was to tell her to stop spinning crazy tales, but he remembered what she had told him about the dreams, and how seriously the Arilinn folk had taken them. “From the sky?” he said skeptically. “What, is this the Blessed Cassilda returned to us? Aldones. Lord of Light?” There was satire in his tone. “Strange visitors from the sky, indeed, to look so much like ordinary men.”

Again, Shavanni shook her head. “No, my promised husband. They are men and women, even as we are. But… but somehow, they come from the sky.”

Both the Captain and the heir to Aldaran were utterly nonplussed. “Well, can you understand them, Damisela?” asked Beltran. “Perhaps with laran?” He knew Esteban’s promised wife was considered extraordinarily gifted in that area.

“If they do not speak any tongue we know, they cannot think in any tongue we know, Captain. I can sense… feelings, sensations… only a little. Perhaps Domna Margali could understand them. She has the Ridenow donas.”

Esteban glanced back uneasily at the strangers—strangers from the sky. He frowned. “Do you… Can you sense any ill intent?”

Shavanni considered. She directed her mind to the fair-haired woman, who had been most familiar to her, trying to brush lightly over the surface thoughts and feelings, without intruding too much, which would be rude. “Only… only a great excitement. I cannot tell the nature of it, but I do not think it is evil in nature.”

Beltran frowned. Esteban’s initial greeting to them had been somewhat liberally interpreted. They were not, actually, on the borders of Aldaran, although they were close to the Darriell manor of Brokenvale, and the Darriells of Brokenvale were the southernmost vassals of Aldaran. Technically, they were probably still on the land of some Elhalyn vassal, but no one kept too scrupulous a track of these unused areas. He looked at Esteban. “Perhaps we should invite them to Aldaran, then, and see if Domna Margali can divine their business?” He looked them over, closer scrutiny confirming their earlier conclusion—the strangers bore no weapons. Many peculiar artifacts, but no weapons.

Esteban looked surprised. “Invite them to Aldaran? But… why?”

Beltran nodded toward the largest of the objects, some kind of house or shelter, apparently, since people had gone in and out of it. “Look at it. It’s metal.”

Esteban’s gaze snapped to the thing. He blinked. It certainly wasn’t wood or stone, or clay brick, or any other material he could put a name to. It might be metal, but it was hard to imagine that much metal in one place.

“Perhaps you’re right. But how…?” He shrugged slightly, and turned back to the strangers, with a smile, making a gesture with both hands spread and brows raised, to signify that he could not understand them. Then he gestured to the party grouped around him, and said clearly (as to a child or an idiot,) “Aldaran.” He pointed to the banner. “See? Aldaran.” He pointed over the hills, in the direction of Aldaran Castle. “Aldaran Castle.” Then he made a gesture that encompassed the woman and those people standing immediately around her. “Aldaran. Come.” He pointed again in the direction of the Castle.

“My promised husband, they have no horses.” Shavanni pointed out deferentially.

“Nonsense. They must have some means of transportation. Perhaps their horses are in that thing. Maybe it’s a stable.” He continued to look amiably at the strangers.

"Captain, evidently they want to take us someplace..." suggested Hochswender.
"Bravo." said Karen sardonically. "Get the Imperial Flag out."
Father Stephen stepped forward, and touched the silver cross at his collar. "Perhaps they will recognize this?" he suggested.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Kemmler nodded to his corporal; they bore out the banner with deliberate care and ceremony, not only for respect but also to show that they meant no harm.
As the blue and gold fluttered open, displaying the crowned leopard, the Lavenrunzians briefly stood to attention.
Once that was done, they turned back to the conversing aliens.
"Nicht deutsch sprechen, eh?" suggested Hochswender.
"Parlez-vous francais?" offered Father Stephen. "Um...hablo espangnol?"

Beltran, Esteban, and Shavanni exchanged looks again, perplexed, and slowly shook their heads in response to whatever it was the strangers were trying to tell them. Evidently this was the retinue of some Lord, or perhaps Lady... but none of the them appeared to be dressed as such. Still, they nodded respectfully to the banner.

Shavanni noticed one of the strangers fingering a silver trinket at his neck, an odd, rather cheap-looking little thing. But it appeared to have significance to him, from the way he touched it.

Beltran murmured, "Perhaps they have lost their Lord and are searching for him? Are they asking if we have seen someone wearing this device?"

Shavanni shook her head. "I don't think that's it, Beltran. I think that one..." she nodded toward the woman with the fair hair, "is in charge. See how the others look to her?"

Esteban spared Shavanni an impatient look. He wished she'd quite spinning Midwinter tales... a woman, not even a noblewoman, by her appearance, in charge of this large group? Really...

Now caught up in the challenge of trying to communicate, he bit his lip in concentration. Then he pointed again, first to the Aldaran banner, then to the embroidered Aldaran crest on his tunic, then to himself.

"Dom Esteban-Marcus Piedro Aldaran of Aldaran, Heir to Aldaran," he said very slowly and clearly. Then he pointed to their banner, and spread his hands and cocked his head in question.

Shavanni was intrigued almost as much by Esteban's reaction to the strangers as to the strangers themselves. He seemed to take it as a personal challenge to make some form of communication happen, and he also seemed to be doing quite a fair job of it. Apparently it was understood all around that no one was hostile. The strangers had responded to his identification of the Aldaran banner with their own banner, although it was rather oddly hung, for a banner.

They waited for the strangers to respond with the name of their Lord, possibly even to identify which among them he was, or at least his representative.

Captain von Hohenloe listened carefully, but it was still nonsense. Except...what was this fellow saying? She looked at him, noted the heraldry, and realized he must either be some kind of lord or prince, or at least an important retainer of one.
She drew a deep breath. She pointed to the banner. "Her Majesty, the Empress Aurora von Sachshausen of Lavenrunz." she said in a clear loud voice.
Then she gestured to herself, making it plain that the eagles on her shoulder bars were clearly seen. "Captain the Countess Karen von Hohenloe, Commander of Her Majesty's Space Vessel Beowulf, Governor of Cottman IV."

They watched the woman gesture to the jewelry on her shoulders. These strangers certainly did use a fair amount of metal adornment on their clothing--it appeared even their buttons were metal!

Beltran, whose experience was considerably wider than either Esteban or Shavanni, caught on first. "Dom Esteban, I believe she is saying that she is in charge of this group."

"Is that possible?" Esteban wondered. Shavanni was torn between annoyance and a desire to giggle at his incredulity.

Beltran nodded. "Renunciates sometimes are put in charge of work parties or guards. Even in our own mountain villages it is not unknown for the village to look to a woman as village coridom, when she is wise and experienced. Or perhaps she has some special ability, like a leronis," he advanced patiently, familiar with Esteban's prejudices.

Shavanni smiled. "And even among the lowland comy'ii, I believe the Aillards and even occasionally the Elhalyn are represented in Council by women," she added.

Esteban hunched a shoulder, clearly willing to impute any madness to the hali'imyn of the lowlands. Sandal-wearers and waterguts, most of them, anyway. But he was convinced. He smiled at the woman, and bowed politely over his saddle bow, as he would have done to a lady belonging to one of his father's vassals.

"S'dia shaya, Mestra... Bee-o-woolf?" he essayed. Again, he gestured in the direction of Aldaran Castle. "Please do me the honor of accepting our escort for yourself and your...." he looked around at the others, "...retainers?"

He sat back in his saddle. "Shavanni, perhaps the invitation should come from a woman, lest it be deemed impropriety for her to respond to an invitation from a man."

Well, that made some sense. Shavanni rode her horse forward, and also bowed gracefully over her saddlebow. "S'dia shaya, Mestra," she gazed at the woman, fascinated. She had the oddest sensation of understanding her, and yet she couldn't make out a word that was being said. She knew, for instance, that the strangers' banner represented some Lord who was very distant, and this woman was his chief retainer here. She knew that even though these strangers were unarmed, they felt not the slightest anxiety at being confronted with a well-armed party from the household of the greatest Lord on Darkover.

She smiled, and gestured to herself. "Shavanni Ellemir MacAran-Storn of Storn, promised wife to Dom Esteban," she indicated him. "Your people..." she gestured, "are welcome to accompany us to Aldaran." She copied Esteban's pointing in the direction of the Castle.

She fixed her intensely blue gaze on the woman, and waited.

Karen met the gaze evenly but sudenly felt a goose walk over her grave. my dream! she thought. And somehow, some strange part of her knew that there was some truth in the dream...and that this woman had something to do with it. Absurd, it would be like believing her omah's old tales of poltergeists and dvergar. She smiled and nodded.
Then pointing at herself again, she shook her head, pointing up and saying "Beowulf." then at herself said "Hohenloe" and nodded. Then gesturing in the direction that the woman had mentioned, she nodded and said, "Ja."
"Lieutenant Hochswender..." she said.
"Yes, Captain!" he came to attention, clicking his heels.
"Prepare our transport to accompany our new friends. We are going to make a visit. Lieutenant Meyer, you and a party of four including Chief Pemsel will remain with the shuttle and prepare it for a return to the Beowulf."
Jawohl, mein Capitain." the aliens would have heard.
Meanwhile, Hochswender saluted in reply and turned.
"Sergeant Kammler."
"Your Honour!" the burly sergeant snapped to attention.
"Prepare the ATVs."
"Your Honour!"
Doctor Kotzebue approached the Captain. "I wonder why the woman came forward--why she was delegated. Could it be a social convention, or is she the one of real rank?"
Karen lifted an eyebrow. "Who knows?"
The ATVs were one by one rolled out of the shuttle, their engines growling to life. The big black wheels moved easily onto the ground. They were able to have a passenger modification as necessary, which had been done. One had a trailer to carry any samples Doctor Kotzebue and his assistants might need. Sergeant Kammler had Rilke, the communications specialist, check her radio for connection to the ship and the shuttle.

"I think they accepted," Beltran said. The Darkovans watched in astonishment as the strangers prepared the huge contraptions for their conveyance. Shavanni was distressed. "Those things will never make it through the Narrows and the Cauldron..." she said. "Don't they have any horses?"

The strangers were about to discover why, even in the days when matrix technology had been at its height, air travel had never flourished in the Hellers. "The Cauldron" was only one of several lower-atmosphere vortices where powerful winds ricocheting from the close-clustered mountains made the areas unnavigable, and paths wide enough for two ponies at most (and those sure-footed,) kept travel at a decorous pace.

But no one had the language to tell them. Shavanni turned to Esteban. "My promised husband, we left our own horses in Cleartrees, with Mestru Jarko. He may have others that we can use, bring in train? When the paths close in..."

Esteban thought about it. He gestured to the guardsman Trenor. "Ride ahead, man, and see Mestru Jarko. Tell him to round up every pony he can lay hands on. I will stand surety for their return. Give him this," he fished a few copper riyals from his pouch, "and tell him to be sure that all the mounts are well-watered and fed, and provided with extra provisions." He looked up at the sky. It looked clear and relatively settled, here, but there was no telling once they were a day or two's ride on into the mountains. Even in high summer, the unpredictable mountain blizzards could descend without warning.

"And some extra rabbithorn fur blankets, as well."

"A ves ordres, vai Dom..." Trenor bowed over his saddlebow, and rode on, giving the peculiar contraptions a wide berth to keep his horse from startling.

Esteban turned to Shavanni. "It seems I was right. As is proper, she could not accept an invitation from a man. I think you should be the one to try and converse with her, Shavanni. Just be sure to tell me anything you learn." He glanced at the man talking to the leader female. He had noticed them exchanging remarks several times. Perhaps the man was some kind of coridom or guardsman, although how he expected to look after the woman without weapons, was a mystery.

He said to Beltran "With such a large party, perhaps we should spend the night in Cleartrees, rather than trying to make Portaca Peak tonight?"

Beltran nodded. "Besides, the trail shelter at Portaca is on a relatively small flat. I doubt it could accommodate a party this large comfortably. We should take the Nareltua trail from the fork, and go around by the Kadren trail shelter for the next night. Then if we get an early start, we may be able to make it to Storn. We can send Jarko's ponies back from there, Lord Storn will mount us."

Shavanni said, "Oh, my father will have just brought in the bands from Midsummer pasturage around Drak's Fell. And we can send a message-bird to Aldaran to let Dom Gabriel know we bring guests."

Esteban nodded approvingly. "Good, Shavanni. Perhaps there, too, we can see if any of these fellows..." his eyes ranged over the men loading the contraptions, "Can manage a weapon. Wouldn't hurt to have a couple of extra swords among us as we go through Diabel Pass. Hawkfist and his bandit scum have been growing far too bold, lately, and the amount of metal these people are toting might tempt him even to risk Aldaran's wrath."

Beltran agreed. "We should raise the vassals and clean out that nest of kyorebni before winter, my Lord."

"I'll speak to my father about it."

They watched the strangers assemble.

"Shavanni, you and Kerris and Brynar ride with the woman... Mestra Hok-een-low's contraption. Beltran, Ragal and I will lead. Merris and the rest of the party can bring up the rear."

Esteban was fascinated by the wheeled contraptions. Wheeled carts for hauling were not uncommon in the lowlands, but the narrow mountain trails and rough terrain, coupled with the heavy snows, meant that the mountain steaders used sledge-type drays that could be mounted on runners for moving heavy loads. Where it was possible, of course. The narrowness of some mountain trails made pony and chervine pack the only transport in many parts of Aldaran's Domain.

The things seemed to move without any draft animal or human push/pull, as well. Legend said that once matrix power had provided such abilities, but he had never seen them used to power anything but gliders. He'd heard that Towers could do something like that--move goods from one Tower to another using specially-constructed relay screens, but he'd never even been to Neskaya. How did they do that? he wondered as he watched the things move. Of course it was totally impractical in the mountains, but... amazing.

Shavanni watched the woman... Mestra?--something told her that probably Domna would be more appropriate, but that would be a stretch for Esteban, she was certain--Hokeenlow, that was it. Sure of herself, directing the men to their tasks. Suppressing a grin, she wondered when Esteban would catch on, and what his response would be when he did. This woman deferred to no man, in fact she expected the deference of her men as naturally as the Lord of Aldaran himself. She devoutly hoped that Domna Margali could establish some kind of communication with these people. She would dearly love to learn all about where this woman came from and how she came to be here, on Darkover.

Lieutenant Hochswender reported, "ATVs ready, my Captain." glancing at the aliens, he remarked, "the Auslanders seem to be awed by our vehicles, Captain."
Karen was drawn, curiously, to the exchange among the leaders of the riding party, and noticed the woman looking at her. How odd...one would expect someone who reminded them of a vivid and strange dream to be alarming, yet she found this woman more intriguing than anything else. Who was she? What was she, among these people?
"No..." she said, noticing their glances and gestures. "They are impressed but...Hochswender, I think the ATVs might not be useful in the mountains. I think these might be steeper and rougher than any back home..there are probably not even any tunnels or roads. Something I am missing though."
"They are barbarians, Captain." said Under-Lieutenant Meyer.
"No, that's just it. They are impressed but not overawed, and they are acting with intelligence and dignity. Never underestimate people, Lieutenant." she said reprovingly.
Doctor Kotzebue suddenly noticed something, and walked up to Karen, his face eager in expression. "Karen," he said quietly, "I just noticed something. They are clearly of at least an advanced medieval culture, but they have no lances, no bows, no crossbows, not even a sling. Isn't that odd?"
"It is, but they aren't wearing armor either." noted Karen. "Maybe this is just a casual party."
"That's just it Captain...and another thing, they clearly came out intending to meet someone. They weren't very surprised. Why not send a party armed with missiles?"
She smiled. "Maybe they are being chivalrous by their standard. Who knows?"

When the strangers indicated they were ready, Esteban used gestures to indicate the direction they would be traveling. Here in the Khilgards, the path was comparatively wide and well-traveled--almost a road, by Darkovan standards. He and Beltran took their places at the front, with the Aldaran banner-bearer just behind them, Shavanni and Kerris ranged up beside the first of the stranger's contraptions (the one that held the leader,) the others arranged themselves accordingly, and they set off.

It was only slightly past Midsummer, so the light was good for a considerable time. The hill path wound mostly among lower, rolling hillsides, avoiding the steeper and more precipitous slopes. Streams and freshets began to appear, here and there, and occasionally a farmstead, with a stone cottage, a cluster of stone and wood outbuildings, orchards, and fenced pasturage for herd beasts.

Once they encountered a train of charcoal-sellers, their wares loaded high onto a packtrain of chervine. On seeing the Aldaran banner approaching, they drew aside, and stood gaping with astonishment at the sight of the strange contraptions and their oddly-appareled occupants.

The shadows had grown very long, and glimpses through the clefts in the hills showed the disk of blood red more than half buried below the jagged horizon, when the path they were one widened even more, becoming well-packed, and branching here and there. In the distance, they could see a cluster of buildings, perhaps two dozen or so, many with smoke coming from stone chimneys. At the edge of the village was a large, well-constructed windmill, with a couple of buildings adjacent to it. Many of the structures were surrounded by high, wood-and-stone stockade fences with stout cross-banded wooden gates.

They passed more Darkovans, countrymen in loose woollen breeches and tunics, with fur-lined leather jerkins over all and low, felt-lined boots. Some wore swathes of tartan cloth, somewhere between a cloak and a shawl. The women wore tartan skirts in muted colors, with long fur-lined wool tunics over them. Everyone bowed deferentially to the Aldaran heir and banner, then turned to gaping at the strangers.

As they passed the windmill, the guardsman Trenor approached from the main village street, and bowed to Esteban, turning to walk beside his horse. "Mestru Jarko says he can mount us all, vai Dom, traders from Hammerfell have just been through with culled stock. They are not as good as our horses, but they have mountain legs."

"Good," said Esteban as he led them to the open gate of a large stockade. Inside was a large, low, rambling stone and half-timber building surrounded by outbuildings and fenced corrals. Many held small, sturdy, slightly shaggy mountain horses, but some were empty and at least one held taller, sleeker plains horses like those the Aldaran party were riding. A large, burly man with dark hair only slightly grizzled, and a face seamed by a scar from the corner of one eye to where part of an ear was missing, approached them, bowing politely.

"Vai Dom, you lend us grace. We have everything in readiness as you requested. My woman has a fine roast of chervine on the spit. Enter, and be refreshed, and honor us with your guesting."

Esteban gestured to the others, and dismounted, himself. He had the lucky gift of camaraderie, without familiarity, with common folk. It made him well-liked among the mountain villages, and he greeted Jarko now with a grin. "My thanks, and Aldaran's, for hospitality, Mestru Jarko. As you can see, I bring you the strangest visitors ever to reach Cleartrees!"

He turned, and gestured to the leader. "This is Mestra Hokeenlow, with her escort," his wave included them. To the stranger woman, he indicated the innkeeper. "Mestra, this is Mestru Jarko, our host. Shavanni..." he beckoned to her, "see if you can get her to understand that Jarko's men will look after her guardsmen, and get her and her Coridom, if that's what he is, and her guard commander, if she has one, to join us."

Shavanni bit her lip. This would be tricky... She caught Domna Hokeenlow's eye, and gestured to where the Aldaran guardsmen, dismounted, were following one of the inn's servants to a barracks-type outbuilding with a stone chimney at one end.

Then she pointed to where two of the inn men, returned from stabling horses, were opening a wide gate, staring curiously at the contraptions.

"You can pasture your... your things..." she gestured. "In there. Your men," another gesture, "will be looked after there..." Then she smiled at the woman, and nodded to the men standing closest to her, and pointed to the main building of the inn. "We will stay here, tonight."

The door to the inn had opened, and Lanalla, Jarko's wife, was standing in it smiling hospitably (and gaping at the strangers and their conveyances). A succulent smell of roasting meat wafted out from behind her.

The inn servants were lighting torches and braziers in the fading light, as the party moved toward the inn, Shavanni (with Merris hovering anxiously behind her) politely waiting for the strangers.

What struck Karen was how few people there seemed to be. It was a place where little of nature had been disturbed, by her standards. The people seemed to live very rural lives, and she noticed the formal courtesies observed.
Arriving at the little village, she noticed the strange animals, with their sharply ridged backs and antlers.
Doctor Kotzebue took it all in, thinking...when he began to mutter to himself she gave him a sharp nudge; he ruefully subsided. "It is fascinating, though, Karen." he murmured. "This society can't be casually classified. Unfortunately I'm not really an anthropologist beyond a bachelor's degree--we need some of the other specialists down here. But clearly they are something odd..."
"Yes, but please keep your thoughts to yourself, Herr Doctor-Professor." advised Karen, using formality to remind him that they were not alone. "The first order of business is to present ourselves to the local rulers and establish diplomatic contact."
And when, she wondered, will I be able to tell them the fact that my orders specifically say that this land is claimed for the Empire of Lavenrunz?
She noted the good stonework, that though the place smelled of animals and was rough by her standards that the people seemed friendly and as clean as you could expect rural people who worked for a living to be.
Observing the woman who appeared to have been made liason, she quickly grasped it.
"Lieutenant Hochswender, the enlisted and other ranks are to go with those guards; we are going to be given hospitality, it seems. You Father Stephen and Doctor Kotzebue are to accompany me. Best behavior all of you!"
Lieutenant Hochswender relayed these orders brusquely; Sergeant Kammler saluted, clicking his heels and quietly told the marines in no uncertain terms that if they disgraced the Empress he, Kammler, would skin them alive.
They believed him.
As the marines put the vehicles in the area indicated (Kammler, after careful thought, removed the pin from the general purpose machinegun and the keys from each of the vehicles; the trailer was locked anyway)
Karen, Doctor Kotzebue, Father Stephen and Lieutenant Hochswender walked into the inn.
The smell of roast meat was heavenly; the hydroponics on Beowulf were the only fresh food they had, everything else was reconstituted and however much spice and flavouring was added there was always the suspicious hint of rubbery artificiality beneath.

Beowulf

Lieutenant Dietrich forgot herself nearly, turning with the bright joy of an excited pixie to cry out, "They made landing! And the Captain has met...natives!"
Lieutenant Groll did not react for a moment, despite the murmuring on the bridge, and finished sipping his tea. This action calmed the others; a Lavenrunzian officer was calm and thoughtful in times of stress, he was reminding them. He handed the cup and saucer to the yeoman who stood at attention nearby, and rose from his seat, putting his hands behind his back.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Dietrich." he said, his faint smile reassuring her. "You may inform the crew and scientific contingent, please pass along all information of the report and prepare a briefing for the officers. The captain left us instructions; I suggest we follow them."
"Yes, Lieutenant Groll." she replied formally, a blush warming her cheeks.

The main hall of the inn was spacious, and there were no other guests. A massive fireplace at each end held a crackling blaze of great logs, and tables and benches were arranged in one side of the room, while the other held mostly benches and a few chairs, draped with fur robes, and a largish clear space. The walls on either side of the door had windows, but these were already hidden behind woven woollen hangings with borders of thick wool-thread embroidery. At the back, doors led to a corridor, to a kitchen, and to a massive stair.

Jugs of fresh mountain white wines, and the more robust red vintages of the lower hills, were already sitting on the tables, with an array of cleverly-lathed and carved wooden goblets for drinking. As Lanalla poured out wine, the inn servants began to carry in platters of food-- roast chervine, with pitchers of a warm, tangy sauce for pouring over or dipping in, three kinds of fresh bread, with butter and an elaborately-layered mound of soft cheeses and herbs, crusty pies of vegetables redolent of some onion-like seasoning, individual pastries filled with a soft, crumbly mixture of meat and cheese and tiny, tangy dried fruits, a kind of loaf formed of nut-paste and softened vegetables, with a thin, flavorful herb crust, and other dishes.

Shavanni was certain that Lanalla's display of culinary virtuosity was meant to impress the Heir to Aldaran, but she was pleased to see that the strangers were enjoying the food heartily. When the main courses were cleared away, bowls of fresh fruit appeared, with soft, crumbly mountain cheese, and small, flaky pie-shaped pastries with bubbling-hot fruit filling, and a rich, caramel-crusted egg custard.

As they ate, a slender, older woman in country dress came in, and Shavanni recognized Lanalla's sister Keryth, who had entertained their party when they were travelling to Arilinn. She hadn't been able to really appreciate the woman's extraordinary voice and considerable skill on the ryll then, but she remembered them well. "Mestra Keryth, you lend us grace. May we ask you the favor of a song or two to entertain Aldaran's guests?"

She guessed that banshees would not have been able to keep anyone away who could possibly advance a legitimate excuse for getting close enough to gawp at the strangers, but Keryth, at least, could pay noble coin for her pleasure. The countrywoman nodded gravely. "It would be my honor, Damisela Storn." She took a stool near the fire, and struck the first notes from her instruments.

Keryth favored the old ballads, tunes so old no one living could even imagine them ever not existing, though the words had changed again and again with the wearing of centuries. None of the Darkovans knew the origins of the tune to which Keryth now sang "The Lay of Camilla's Rescue" as a graceful compliment to the Heir of Aldaran. The ballad told of how Camilla, sister of the blessed Cassilde, after being abducted by the demon Zandru, was cast forth to wander and die in the mountains, but was found and sheltered by the first Lord of Aldaran. A student of ancient Earth music, however, would have found the tune hauntingly familiar--as was the next, the "Firewatcher's Ballad," about the lonely man far from love and family, choosing to die in preventing fire from engulfing a village rather than return to his loved ones.

Shavanni mused on the nature of mountain ballads. Tragedy, noble sacrifice, vengeance, and lost love were perennial themes. Keryth's voice, a clear, supple soprano, twined in and out of the harp's intricate chords and arpeggios to great effect.

Of course Esteban rewarded her liberally with a five-riyal copper piece. By that time, the fires were burning low, and some of the inn servants showed the guests to surprisingly functional bathing and toilet facilities. Esteban was, of course, shown to Mestru Jarko's best chamber, and the men were shown, three to a room, into commodious adjacent rooms. But the two women were shown to a large, comfortable room with four roomy curtain-hung beds, well-appointed in the mattress, featherbed, and fur blanket department. A fire warmed the room, hangings drawn over the windows excluded the drafts, and oil lamps provided light. A maid rendered the women all the assistance they would accept in readying for bed.

Shavanni had tried to watch Domna Hokeenlow, without being too rude. Perhaps she should have tried to converse with her, learn something that would help Esteban in hosting these strangers from up there, but the day's journey had been long and full of incident, and sleep claimed her immediately. Dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Lanalla and Jarko had fragrant nut-porridge sprinkled with dried fruits, grilled thin strips of smoked spiced meat, fresh bread with fruit and cheese spreads, and pitchers of steaming jaco already on the tables when the travelers entered the main hall. Esteban was already there when Shavanni arrived, trying to converse with one of the strangers, but it was largely a matter of gestures and shrugs. He seemed to be trying to convey to them that they would be heading into the mountains today.

"Shavanni, can you make them understand that those mounts of theirs must either be left here in Mestru Jarko's care, or abandoned on the trail later today? I can't seem to explain properly to this fellow."

"I will try, my promised husband. Perhaps when they have breakfasted and we are preparing for the trail they will be able to see the problem more clearly," she tried to tactfully gain time for the strangers to have their morning meal in peace.

Esteban shrugged. "Alright. I've looked over Jarko's horses. Trenor was right, they're not to compare with ours, but they'll manage. I asked Beltran to see if the smith had any respectable weapons on hand, perhaps some of the strangers can use them."

When the food was cleared away, and their horses were being loaded, Beltran returned, with three serviceable shortish blades in worked leather scabbards. "These were all that was available, vai Dom. The smith here does little weapons working, he traded for these."

Beltran tested the balance of one, drawing it from the sheath. The blade was dull-gray, once-tempered steel. A farmer's weapon, or a blade for a minor noble to provide beginning guardsmen, but sturdy enough, and well-sharpened. "They'll do." Sheathing the weapon again, he walked over to the one he thought was called "Daktar." He showed him the weapon, and gestured to the men who had come with the strangers. "Can any of your people use these?" He asked. Beltran held out the other two.

The food was delicious; the warmth and merriment of the hall pleasant...but Karen was distracted by thoughts of the stranger woman who she was beginning to think...had perhaps also dreamed of her. Absurd! But yet it made such sense she could not discard it.
The Lavenrunzians conducted themselves with dignity but enjoyment during the meal. Doctor Kotzebue was struck by the minstrel; both the complexity of the music and the convention suggested rich traditions but ones oral more often than written. Clearly the song was one of tragedy and dread, of apotheosis and climax, but what exactly did it mean?
"Do you also notice," murmured Hochswender, "The lack of rice and potatoes or yams?"
Karen nodded. "Perhaps the soil here is not good for it? But you're right, Lieutenant, though the food is also singularly well suited towards a cold climate."

The following morning, Doctor Kotzebue took in the morning, interested in the place by day, and noticed the...second in command, or whoever he was, Herr Beltran...approach with the long knives.
He watched the gesture carefully, almost feeling tense...he was unarmed, it struck him, for the first time.
But then Private Rilke, nearby, exclaimed, "He's offering them, Herr Doctor-Professor! He wants to see if we can use them!"
The young private had begun to wonder last night if she was being taken for a boy; certainly she realized that her shapeless military clothing and very short hair, plus her husky build and contralto voice might seem androgynous here...but as the Doctor beckoned her forward, she reached out with a polite bow of her head for one of the knives.
"It's about like a bayonet." she said, holding it easily.
"But why offer them?" Doctor Kotzebue mused. "Is it some kind of test, or what?"
Sergeant Kammler pondered. Privately he thought that the auslanders maybe didn't take their weapons for arms, but he wasn't about to reveal all that they had. He barked "Himmelstoss, get over here and take that bayonet with a bow."
"Yes, Sergeant!"
He bowed, clicking his heels to the auslander gentleman, and said carefully, "Danke Schoen." in a polite voice as the other marine he had beckoned to and he took theirs.
When they had received the weapons, he said, "Alright, these are gifts from these folk, treat 'em well or you'll answer for it." he himself had taken one as well.
The marines suppressed grumbling about still more to carry.
"But Sergeant..." complained one quietly, "We already got bush knives."
"Well, keep 'em to yourself, don't insult these folk." he said sharply.
Seeing Captain Hohenloe, Father Stephen and Lieutenant Hochswender approaching, he snapped
"Atten-tion! Commanding officer on parade!"
Karen saluted. "What is with the bayonets, Sergeant?"
"The aus--locals gave us them, my Captain."
She looked faintly amused. "Perhaps I should have brought my dress sword. What's this?"
Father Stephen sighed faintly. He loathed, hated horses, always had. As they watched the extras brought out, he said, "I am afraid, Captain, that they are probably for us."

Marines are not traditionally trained as riders, nor are Imperial Space Agency technicians...indeed, apart from Karen von Hohenloe, Doctor Kotzebue and one of the techs who had actually grown up in the country, they sat with grim intent to hold on for dear life. Taking what they could put on the horses with them, slinging assault weapons over their shoulders, they prepared to follow the strangers.
Captain Hohenloe said quietly, "Is the GPS still locking our position?"
"Yes, Captain." said Hochswender.
"Very well, send a signal to the Beowulf. Give them the next report."
She felt a thrill; they were truly going on more than a mission, it was an adventure into a totally unknown place.

"Well, they seem ready enough to accept the weapons, perhaps they can use them," Esteban was pleased. "We'd better make it clear to them that their, uh, mounts will be safe here with Mestru Jarko."

Shavanni, who was being helped into her thicker fur-lined cloak by Merris, nodded. "I will try, my promised husband."

Merris had been watching the strangers who had been examining the weapons. "My lady, I think that one is a Renunciate" she nodded to one of them, who indeed Shavanni had taken for a rather slight young man.

"I think you're right, Merris. But if she is like most Renunciates on the trail, she will require nothing more than a bit of privacy from time to time. And Esteban, give him due, has never objected to the Sisterhood doing whatever work they are hired to do. He'll never willingly hire them, but he'd not object to another's doing so."

"But, my Lady, do you think they have Renunciates where these people come from?"

Shavanni stopped, stock still for a moment, absorbing this thought. Then she grinned. "Well, if not Renunciates, something apparently like enough to them." She snugged the fastening of the cloak around her, and turned to where Domna Hokeenlow was watching her men's reaction to the little mountain horses being led out.

She gestured to the things, in their pasture. "You may leave your, ah, carts here, Domna Hokeelow." She pointed to the innkeeper. "Mestru Jarko will guard them well," she indicated the stout stockade fence. "They will be safe here, and Aldaran" she gestured to the banner that Hedren was unfurling, "will stand surety for them."

The pack horses were loaded, and Esteban had chosen the best of Jarko's horses for the leader and her officers. With a graceful farewell to the innkeeper and his wife, they rode out of the inn yard, through the village, and onto the road that led to the Nareltua trail.

The crimson sun had climbed less than halfway to its meridian when the trail began to narrow and climb. They saw the last of the larger steads a little before breaking their journey midday. As they approached the fork where the Nareltua and Portaca trails diverged, a train of pack chervine approached from the Portaca direction, accompanied by a couple of merchants and guarded by a few of the merchants' men and a half dozen or so mercenaries--including three Renunciates.

They exchanged polite greetings, the merchants courteously drawing aside for the Aldaran party, and trying not to stare at the strange apparel of many of the riders.

It had become clear to Esteban that most of the strangers were unaccustomed to the saddle, and as they rode he and Beltran discussed the possibility of an interim stop at a trail hut the Captain knew of, to rest the strangers' legs. Regretfully, they decided that their best course was to make all speed to Storn, which meant reaching the Kadren trail and its shelter by nightfall.

"Besides," said Beltran, trying not to grin, "They'll be in pain regardless, within a short time of dismounting. Best get as much distance from them as we can. There's a hot spring at the Kadren shelter, they can soak their saddle sores there."

As they wound up the Nareltua trail, the way became steeper, and the sheer sides of cliffs occasionally bounded the trail on one side or another. Once they passed along the lip of a huge arroyo, more than a thousand feet deep, the trail taking them within an armlength of the edge.

Occasionally, a shyling hut appeared, clinging to a small level or nearl-level piece of ground, sometimes with a shelter and enclosure for herd animals. The mountains loomed closer, huge and forbidding. Almost always, the trail climbed, sometimes steeply, sometimes less so. Occasionally, as they passed between hills and low peaks, there was a short, steep descent, and it was here that the sure-footed mountain horses were invaluable.

Shortly after a mid-afternoon rest stop (Beltran kept it short, not wanting the strangers' unaccustomed muscles to sieze up on them,) the Kadren trail diverged from the Nareltua, over a narrow, swaying bridge of wood and stout rope. Thousands of feet below, a furious river, the Kadarin, raced away from its source to find the sweeter course among the hills, to reach the plains and rest.

By nightfall everyone was thoroughly weary, but the trail rounded a sharp outcropping and debouched onto a wide, level space, occupied by a trail shelter and a fenced corral. In the corral, a large tank of stone, with a pump handle at one end, provided water for the animals, and behind the shelter a hot spring steamed slightly in the darkening, chilling air.

The shelter, a single (but fairly large) room, was well-stocked inside with wood, and another pump and basin provided water. There were a couple of heavy wood chests against one wall, but they had plenty of provisions and did not need the provisions stockpiled there. Beltran had his men look after the horses first, and Shavanni showed the strangers the hot spring. No more was necessary, she knew they'd get the point within an hour or two of dismounting.

Folded on top of one of the chests was a leather curtain; this Merris hung from wooden pegs across one corner, and laid out the women's sleeping furs behind it. Esteban, meanwhile, with the help of Ragal, was demonstrating his handiness with trail cookery, having kindled a fire in the stone fireplace. A couple of Beltran's men would be sent forth early, before they left in the morning, to gather wood to replace what they used. Keeping trail shelters stocked was an unwritten law that everyone in the mountains observed, for their own good--the shelters saved lives and made travel possible, here.

Large as the shelter was, it was a tight fit for such a large party, and Beltran and the Aldaran guardsmen unrolled their furs among the horses, outside. In the (to them) balmy summer night, it was no great hardship, they could have slept beside their beasts a few hours further up the trail, had they not had the women and the strangers with them.

The next day, all of the Darkovans kept sternly disciplined straight faces as they led out the horses for the strangers.

Still the trail grew steeper, and by mid-afternoon the horses were often picking their way single file or two abreast between sheer cliffsides and heart-stopping drops. Occasionally, however, the trail would debouch into a high, grassy plateau, sometimes occupied by a few shyling huts, sometimes empty. Some of these were sizeable, indeed, and could have held a small city or large village.

In the late afternoon the sky darkened with startling suddenness and a snow squall was upon them. Beltran and Esteban halted, momentarily, to confer. Beltran was of the opinion it was a short squall, they'd be through it in an hour or so. "The trail from here is clear and we run little risk of losing it if the snow remains this light," he said. It would have been called a blizzard, in the lower hills, but for the mountains it was indeed "light."

They pushed on, and as the sky darkened further they were rewarded by a gleam in the near distance as they crested a ridge--the manor of Storn. A small castle, really, it was one of the older estates in the Hellers, though not as old as Aldaran. Still, its central keep had been reared by forgotten matrix skills in the days when the mountain lords had each claimed themselves kings and fought strenuously to enforce their claims on one another. It gleamed palely among the rougher, lower stone buildings around it. A considerable portion of Storn's outer wall, too, had been matrix-reared in the days of the great feud with Hammerfell, though the great gate had been long since replaced.

Sharp-eyed Brynar could see the lanterns being kindled and the gate being opened--they had been spotted by the lookout on the Storn wall.

In very little time they were in the outer courtyard, dismounting as men in Storn livery took their horses. A couple very richly dressed led a small procession from the great hall into the courtyard, and Daren-Istvan, Lord Storn of Storn, and his Lady Melisendra Lindir greeted their overlord's heir with deference before folding their daughter in a warm embrace.

"But how is this? Lord Storn looked over the party, whose features were indistinct in the torchlight. "You set forth some tendays ago, my Lord, with eleven, and I find you with nearly three times that number!"

Esteban grinned. "Oh, we have a tale to tell, Dom Istvan." They moved into the banner-hung Great Hall as they spoke, bright with torches, sconces, and lamps (not to mention the gigantic fire in a stone fireplace that could easily have accommodated a pair of horses and left them room to turn around.) Here in the brighter light, the strangers' clothing was glaringly apparent.

Jeran

He sighed, shaking his head.
“Sorry Desideria, but the last thing I need now is someone rooting around in my grief,” he winced. “It’s almost as if my world ended when…Ysabet left me alone.” Instead she took away my bredu and my will to live.

His mind flashed on happier times; Ysabet discovering her pregnancy and foolishly running out to meet Dartan and Jeran as they arrived at Armida. Imposed as a shadow beside the memory was the view as Jeran imagined it might have been when Ysabet lay in bed, childbirth stretching her beautiful features making her pale and translucent as the shade she would soon become.
Not one child struggling forth from her womb, but the twins they had already named together; Ardrin and Amyra.

Why did the storms come so unexpectedly? Why did winter fall early?
Dartan Lanart had little laran yet he had shared what Jeran had been unable to; the birth of their children and Ysabet’s death.

Fool Dartan, fool! He scowled, realised that his thoughts had swept him into daylight dreaming and that he pantomimed his every feeling now before Desideria and Coryn. But he was unable to suppress the scenario as it unfolded in his mind.
This can’t merely be stress, can it?

Dartan Lanart had not been strong enough, linked to Ysabet Ridenow-Alton he’d been pulled down into death with her. He probably tried to save her, refused to give up until it was too late. Tears gathered and Jeran struggled to suppress them. “Why did I have to loose them both?” he said aloud, realised his error and flushed crimson.

He forced himself to focus on Desidera, ignored the furrowing of her brows; ignored the concern he could feel emanating from her.
“Domna Caitlyn has a message for the council?” He wondered just what had occurred between the Aldaran delegation and the Leronis of Arilinn Tower.


Lirielle

“Vai Leronis,” Lirielle murmured nervously as the elderly comynara entered the chamber. She bowed her head, afraid to meet the woman’s eyes. To be what you wish to become is a terrible struggle, a heartbreaking thing preciosa. The words of Lord Alton were a whisper at the back of her mind, his attempt to sway her decision. But even then, she had glimpsed some sliver of pride in Melor Alton’s eyes. She used this now to bolster her resolve.

“You bring me grace,” she said, swallowed and raised her eyes to meet with Caitlyn’s. “I am Lirielle-Alanna Syrtis, sent by Lord Alton to Arilinn for training. I…I would like to be a Keeper.” The last she added in a whisper, yet her eyes did not waver. This is what I want, this is my choice. Her thoughts steadied, braced by some underlying strength she had always known she possessed. It is my path, my destiny.
She waited, knowing that soon some form of testing would come. The easiest part of her training would come now; but if Caitlyn accepted her as apprentice, it would be the least of her trials.

http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/12052/alton_signature.jpg

Desia could feel the painful memories cascading through Jeran's mind, and while her sympathy was deep, so was her concern. If an Alton cannot sufficiently control his barriers... Jeran is indeed overwrought by the tragedy... she thought. Caitlyn would probably pick up on it, but still...

"Jeran, when you were here with us, we were friends. You and Elanna were friends. Can you not allow us the privilege of helping a friend? It need not take much time from your journey, just a couple of hours for Elanna to do some deep monitoring and heal just a little of the damage to your channels. If there is something important for the Council to deal with, how essential it will be for them to have an Alton representative, functioning at his best."

She exerted no extraordinary pressure, but let her genuine care project fully. So tragic, to lose a beloved wife and a beloved bredu, together...



Caitlyn surveyed the girl, not showing by the slightest sign how the sight and mental touch of the girl jolted her back to the day when she had stood where Lirielle stood now, waiting for Melisendra Aillard's judgement.

Several girls of comyn families had stood where Lirielle stood now, and most of them had been refused, gently routed into other training. Some were technicians, monitors, mechanics, here and at other Towers. Only two apprentices had Caitlyn fully trained in all her time as Keeper of Arilinn. It was a terrible training, a year of near-total isolation, followed by a visit to family and loved ones. If after that visit, the candidate was deemed suitable for continued training (and if she wanted to continue-- some left, at that point,) three more years of isolation and individual training, followed by three years as Apprentice-Keeper doing work in a Tower Circle, before a Keeper was fully trained, and could take the Keeper's Oath.

Could this girl endure it?

"And what do you know, Lirielle-Alanna Syrtis, of the duties of a Keeper? And the life of a Keeper? Tell me."

She regarded the girl steadily...

The journey was a hard one for those unaccustomed to horses. It was also an excellent reconaissance. Without helicopters and a great deal of engineering, this land would be difficult at best.
The weather and mountains made radio transmission difficult to receive without the opportunity to stick the GPS antenna out--there really was no opportunity.
Doctor Kotzebue took notes, and Father Stephen in particular observed the social dynamics he saw.
Karen began to try to get to know the woman called Shavanni--whose relationship with the nobleman Esteban was puzzling. Clearly not a blood relative, nor merely a retainer...she put aside speculation, leaving it to be another mystery, though she did try to communicate about the differing relationships.
She found with Shavanni that some of her barriers would discreetly drop; the natural curiousity and good humor that she disciplined carefully for the sake of command found themselves, oddly enough, eager for this woman's friendship. She encouraged the others to trade words with those they spoke with.
Nightly they did the ritual of sending a message of their location; foreigners or not, they did it properly, in code. Father Stephen was discreet but firm in insisting upon the saying of Grace and of daily prayers for the success of the endeavor.
Karen found the priest a reassurance; she was proud of all of them, how in spite of the unfamiliarity and discomfort they did their duty. She herself found the first two days rough; she was unused to such tough horsemanship. Her example strove to be in the finest traditions of the service though; her first concerns were the mission and her followers.
The Lavenrunzians did their best to maintain proper appearances--it was difficult under the circumstances but coats were brushed, men were shaved, teeth were cleaned, equipment oiled and maintained.
As they went higher, the mountains went from being impressive monuments to terrifying obstacles. At times Karen could barely see much distance between the hooves of her sturdy little horse and the distant gulf below, tiny toylike trees and rivers like threads...
At the shelter, Karen had to give a particular order.
"Doctor Kotzebue has pointed out to me that the women and men are rather modest around each other. So--we will separate the sexes for bathing."
She felt absurd doing so, after all in Lavenrunz a proper person just politely didn't notice another person's nakedness. It was an old, old tradition dating back to when in the long winters in the parts nearest Antarctica it took so much in the way of resources to heat a sauna that people didn't have time for modesty. Now it was just how things were done.
She wondered what these folk made of the marines' tattoes, showing the Imperial Coat of Arms on one arm and that of the Corps, with Nemo impune me lacessit! written on the other.

The castle fascinated the Lavenrunzians: those in the Empire were old, and either used as monuments or as places of ceremony; they were not as comfortable as the palaces built a century ago, and of course gunpowder had made them obsolete.
In the courtyard, Karen felt as excited and nervous as a cadet about to achieve commission...she smiled at Shavanni as she went inside and them ordered everyone to put on their best and cleanest gear.
She herself had her cap readied, had leather gloves pulled on. She again wished for her ceremonial sword, but who knew it would be needed? She half wished to be in her old Wachtmeister to come screaming down out of the sky and awe them all...but she thrust that aside.
She so wanted this to go well, for amity to result from this.
Walking into the hall, Hochswender stiff and proud to one side, Doctor Kotzebue dignified to the other, she went into introduce herself to what she assumed was the King of the region they had landed in.

Jeran

He knew that she spoke only truth, yet his ego rebelled against her.
I am my own master. But as the thoughts leaked through his deteriorating shielding he lowered his eyes, cheeks rouged with embarrassment. This is no display of mastery.
Jeran nodded, accepting defeat.
To ride to Comyn Castle like this would only invite the predatory instincts of the Council. Alton Domain could not be viewed as weak, he could not represent Lord Alton in such a condition.

“Your wisdom must prevail Domna,” he sighed and managed a faint smile. “I must learn to accept help where it is offered. I was once told that learning the art of delegation was integral to my success as Alton Heir and I think it applies here too. I cannot do everything myself.” He winced, remembered that Dartan had spoken those words to him. With great effort he rewove his mental shields, aware even as he did so that they were already weakening and that soon they would be nothing more than feeble spiderwebs.
http://gallery.cybertarp.com/albums/userpics/12052/jeran.jpg
Jeran


Lirielle

Thoughtfully she considered the question that the Leronis had put to her.
Is this part of the testing? She had not imagined that Cailtlyn would want answers from her that she had not gained the knowledge to fully provide. What did anyone know of the inner workings of a tower who did not already work there?

But she was afraid to answer the Keeper’s question with these thoughts, it would mean that she’d turned the Domna’s query into one of her own. Instead she tried to piece together what she’d overheard and the things that others who’d been in the confines of a tower had told her.
The towers are a world in themselves… The words had new meaning now that she stood within a tower chamber herself, but she thrust them aside forgetting who had spoken so and concentrating on the facets related to Keepers.

“The Keeper is the centre of her circle,” she spoke slowly and carefully, brows deeply furrowed; biting her lower lip occasionally as she struggled with a memory that refused to yield up its secrets. “Through her flows the…”What was that word? Enrons? “…laran of every member of her circle, passed through their personal matrix and then guided by the Keeper through the tower’s greater matrix for many purposes.”
She looked up at Caitlyn, terrified that her answer was wrong, that the Leronis [i/] would not accept it; that she had just failed the first part of her testing.

These thoughts threatened to destabilise her equilibrium and with great effort she stilled her mind.
[i]It is the greatest service that any comynara can give to the domains, to the Comyn Council and to the people of Darkover. She did not shield these words, allowed the Keeper to read them. What more could any woman do, other than bear her husband heirs?

Hawkfist's Prisoner...

Captain Alekandro Ardais came too with the pounding of blood in his head and a view of the world that was not quite right.
Confusion clouded his thoughts, yet some instinct told him to remain still until he had accessed his situation.

Memories were filtering to the surface and he recalled as a large group of raiders had unexpectedly come surging out of the underbrush, taking his few men completely by surprise.
There had been no time to organise a defence, no time to signal Lord Alton several vars away. We might not yet be missed! The realisation made him uneasy. How far had they travelled since the pommel of a raider-sword had slammed into the small of his neck and sent his mind whirling into darkness?

The pain that threatened to split his skull was not however his only ache, his wrists and ankles had been tightly bound and he knew that no consideration had been given to circulation.
The horse over which he had been casually flung was in a company of many; this he could tell by the sounds of many hooves against the stone and hard earth of the mountainous landscape.

We’re heading into the Hellers. Surprised he speculated on the shadowy figure behind the raiding parties. Aldaran Devils? He grinned, muffled a cry of pain.

He couldn’t tell if any of his companions had been brought along without alerting his captors to the fact that he was conscious. Fears that he was the only survivor left him cold. He tried to reach mentally for any familiar mind and almost gave everything away by shouting out his surprise.
Faded memories of being forced to drink flickered through hazy memories of partial consciousness. They’ve given me raivannin!

Panic set in and he hoped that it’d not digested enough to keep his laran blocked until the raiders gave him another dose. Zandru’s hells, what have I got caught up in?

“Aldones be praised!” Lord Storn contrasted the poised, glowing young woman before him with the pale, haunted girl who had left some tendays past. “Did the leronis of Arilinn work this magic then?”

Shavanni smiled. “They certainly helped, father. It was the strangest thing… And finding these strangers on the road is the strangest thing yet. I would swear that they are the folk of my dreams. Yet now that I see them in the flesh, they are not fearsome at all. Strange, but not as terrifying as the dreams.”

Esteban had given only a brief explanation of finding the strangers, and introduced Domna Hokeenlow to Lord and Lady Storn, before going off to the best guest chamber the commodious manor house had to offer. They had been on the trail some days, and Storn had excellent bathing and refreshment facilities. He was looking forward to a real bath and some comfort.

“You are not our only guests, my daughter,” Lord Storn told Shavanni when she rejoined them in the Great Hall. He drew forward a stocky, fair-haired man with the air of reserve that characterized the matrix workers of the Towers, and a boy of perhaps twelve, who shared the same grey eyes and broad forehead. “Algar Ridenow, of the Neskaya Tower, has journeyed to Thendara and back, to bring his brother Venzan to Nevarsin. His mother’s sister Mirielle Syrtis-Lindir is cousin to your mother.”

Shavanni smiled. “It is a pleasure to greet a kinsman.” She turned to the younger of the two. “Will you learn to sleep in the snow, then, Venzan?” she teased lightly. The boy grinned. “So I have heard, kinswoman. But I am more interested in learning to read and write.”

Unlike many of the mountain lords, Lord Storn approved of such education, and had even had his own children taught to read and write, and understand the basics of figuring. He nodded. “You’ll find the knowledge useful, youngster,” he began, when the strangers returned to the Hall. With a smile, he stood to greet them.

“Be welcome, friends of my daughter, and of Aldaran’s heir, to Storn. The good will of the Gods attend your guesting under my roof.” Lady Storn smiled warmly. “Shavanni, do they speak any cahuenga at all?” she asked.

Shavanni’s brows drew together. “Not really, but Domna Hokeenlow and I can often understand one another.” she smiled warmly at the woman, and deliberately moved to stand between her parents, indicating them. “Lord Storn… Lady Storn…” then pointed to herself again. “Shavanni Storn.” She then turned to face her parents, introducing those whose names she thought she knew. “Domna Hokeenloe, Loytnan Hokswenter, Daktar Kotsevu, Vatar Stefan.”

Esteban joined them, then, and Lady Storn signaled the servants to prepare the Hall for dining. Domna Hokeenlow and her chief retainers were seated at the Storns’ table, with Esteban, and Shavanni’s older brothers Ann’dra and Mikhael, and the other guests, the Ridenows. Esteban managed to be polite to them, although his expression, when he was told of the purpose of their journey, just barely missed the kind of casual contempt that so often set Shavanni’s teeth on edge. And of course he could not restrain himself from murmuring in her ear “Well, what else would you expect?”

She glanced involuntarily at Algar, well-aware that anyone with strong laran could hardly be unaware of Esteban’s attitude, but the laranzu’s equanimity appeared unimpaired, in fact she could tell he was a little amused. After dinner, while some of the younger folk were entertaining the group with intricate ring-dances, she was sitting by her father when Algar approached, and sat nearby. “Are you aware, Damisela,” he said, “that there is a strong rapport between you and…” he frowned, unable to remember the name. He gestured to the leader of the strangers, who was watching the over-and-under weaving of ribbons as the little girls danced in and out of the center of the ring.

“Domna Hokeenlow?” Shavanni said, intrigued. It made sense. She had felt something. “But—has she laran?”

Algar shrugged “A rudimentary amount, at any rate. I think she could learn our tongue, in rapport. At least enough to communicate with you.”

Shavanni blinked. “I had thought that perhaps Domna Margali, at Aldaran, might be able to understand her. She has the Ridenow gift.”

“I can, if I try, sense her feelings, even currents of ideas, though it would take deep monitoring and sustained rapport for me to do more, and she might find that uncomfortable. But you and she have already established some rapport, and even a very light touch should be able to open her to understanding your cahuenga. With that, she might learn to understand others, quite quickly.”

Esteban, seeing the lowlander in conversation with his promised wife, had come up to stand closely behind her, and he caught this last remark. “Is that possible?” he asked skeptically. “They none of them seem to speak any civilized tongue.”

Algar smiled amiably. “I believe so. Of course, she would have to be willing.”

Shavanni thought about that one for a minute. How to convey it? Even as she thought about it, the woman turned, as though alerted to her thought, and caught her eye, smiling.

With a gesture, Shavanni invited her over. “Domna Hokeenlow, my kinsman Algar Ridenow,” she introduced them. “Dom Algar, um,” she gestured to her ear, and mouth. “Can help us speak? Understand one another?” she tried. “If you,” she pointed, “are willing?” Finally, she spread her hands in question.

Caitlyn nodded, deliberately. "Yes, a Keeper is centerpolar in the matrix circle, and holds and directs the energon flows. But to say that is like saying that a man dies because he stops breathing. There are many complexities to learn.

"So you understand a little of what a Keeper does, in the Circle, at least. But what do you know of how this work is done? What demands are made of the Keeper in order that she can perform this function? How those demands relate to the work?

Behind her, she could hear the door open again, and Elanna came in. The monitor nodded to Lirielle. "Welcome to Arilinn, Damisela Lirielle."

Caitlyn said, "Have you ever had deep monitoring, Lirielle?"



Desia simply nodded, respecting Jeran's privacy and his grief. "I think Elanna is with Lirielle and Caitlyn now. It should not be long. Have a good breakfast, and I will let them know as soon as they are done."

"I don't have a scrap of any of the precognitive laran, Jeran. Never have. But even I can feel something in the air. This Council will need your strength. You understand, a little-- more than many who speak in Council-- the ways and needs and abilities of the Towers. That will be important, whatever may lie ahead."

With a friendly nod, she rose and gestured to a kyrri to bring fresh jaco, and left.

Gypsy Eyes...

Aboard the Beowulf Iolanthe Pfrommer did not need her sister Neodie to tell her that there was life on the world they’d come to claim for Lavenrunz.
But she kept her knowledge secret, Neodie would only shake her head anyway.
She didn’t believe that their mother had been anything more than a somewhat eccentric dreamer, she didn’t believe in ‘Gypsy eyes’ or anything else that Alita spoke of.
Secretly, Iolanthe was sure, Neodie had always wondered what their father had seen in the ethereal woman he’d married. Mother, Neodie sees you as the only flaw in Father.
She sighed.

Since Alita and Falke’s death, the two sisters had been drifting further and further apart.
It was only through Iolanthe’s efforts that they were now together again, a very long way away from home. I need Neodie to be around after…
She turned away from that line of thought and took to gazing at the screen on the far wall. It looked a little like a window with the sphere of Cottman IV glimmering in the black and star-studded void beyond.
On that world she knew where many people who would believe in Gypsy eyes and one in particular for whom she’d risked everything to meet.

I saw two paths, one was long and not at all the life lived in my childhood dreams and the other…the other was short, but so full it seemed twice the life of the first path. She’d written it down in her diaries, for Neodie to read later so that she might understand what Iolanthe had chosen and why. Two paths and I choose the shorter one Mother! A strange word, foreign and powerful rose in her mind, Elhalyn.
It carried with it no trace of understanding, but intuitively Iolanthe linked it to her premonition and specifically to the number of paths she’d glimpsed.

“The word itself is power,” she frowned but nothing more came to her. The strange word was certainly not Spanish.
But she knew that her mother’s tongue would be useful down below, she could already feel the Spanish flavour of words yet to be revealed. Her mother’s gift would bring understanding with intuitive ease.

“Laran,” she gasped with delight, the word electric in her mind like fire. Gypsy eyes.
She approached the screen, touched it’s cold smooth surface and felt a shiver of excitement course through her.
“Darkover,” she said, smiled as meaning solidified briefly in her mind. “Home.”

Cottman V

"Cottman V is no one's idea of a holiday spot either," Admiral Schiller scribed into his journal. "On a warm day it reaches a balmy -175 celsius, and near the poles drops as low as -300.What appear to be tranquil seas are various poisonous gasses that are being evaluated for fuel purposes by robot drones currently under the direction of one of our dropships."
He sighed. The junior officers were having all the fun, in a sense. Karen Hohenloe, his best ship captain, had gotten the prize both for exploration and for audacity in going herself. Schiller had, like Hohenloe, been in the Imperial Navy before joining the Imperial Space Agency. In his case, it was submarines--indeed, he was well qualified to command people who would have to be confined together in a most hostile environment for a long stretch of time.
Already, one of the ships was making for one of the moons, to start putting a base and spaceport there. But would the fourth planet itself be of any worth? Apparently it was all some kind of hellish wilderness...though there might be sufficient natural resources...
His communication's port hailed from his desk computer.
"Schiller." he said gruffly.
"Excellency, I beg your pardon but Captain Hohenloe has gone to visit one of the local princes to establish contact."
Schiller grunted. That was difficult--but it merely meant he would have to make a decision without her. Well, Hohenloe was loyal, brave and intelligent, he could rely on her to do the sensible thing.
His biggest concern was that panic and despair might take place among the crew, at news that the planet was inhabited...that rumors might spread that they would not settle after all. He knew very well that the best thing to do was keep everyone active, working.

Beowulf

"Now hear this: Now hear this." the ship's public address said. "Fourth Platoon, Marine Company will parade in Hangar Seven ASAP to assist flight crews in preparation for shuttle landings on Cottman IV."
The marines, busy shining shoes and cleaning weapons, groaned. More crap jobs helping the gottverdammt spacers.
Iolanthe's friend, Anna Kiesel, who was a cartographer, came up and squeezed her hand, distracting her from her thoughts.
"Hey, I don't know if you are aware, but we get to go down with the first wave. Apparently the natives are friendly." her cheerful features smiled easily. "


Storn Castle, the Heller Mountain Range, Darkover

Karen Hohenloe listened and watched Shavanni carefully, her blue eyes taking it all in.
It was odd to her; it was as though visitors from the stars were less remarkable than the ambassadors, or whoever they were. But then, these people had no flying machines, no spacecraft...they probably weren't even sure what such strange folk as she and the crewmembers and Doctor Kotzebue must have seemed...
At last it made sense, seeing the man--Algar? and the motions.
"Ahhh...." Karen said. She "Ich verstehe--das ist gut." she nodded just to make sure, saying, "Ja."

Shavanni smiled encouragingly at Domna Hokeenlow, then turned to Algar Ridenow. "I think she is willing, kinsman. What should we do?"

The laranzu looked around, at the busy hall, with all of the music, people, and dancing. "We should have quiet, Damisela. She won't have a matrix, so the link must be made through yours. Yours is fully keyed?"

Shavanni's hand went automatically to the little silken bag at the base of her throat, concealed by the softly draped collar of her gown. "Yes. Domna Margali gave it to me three Midsummers past." She looked at Lady Storn. "Mother, may we use your solar?"

Esteban escorted them to the solar, leaving the stranger woman, the hali'imyn laranzu (probably a sandal-wearer, he thought to himself, but nonetheless he called Ragal and set him on guard at the solar door,) and his promised wife together. With a final, minatory glance, he left them.

Shavanni poked up the banked fire. Her mother's solar was one of the most pleasant rooms in the Castle, wide windows letting onto the inner courtyard (curtained now) and a skylight made it bright and cheerful in the daytime. On the other walls, exquisitely embroidered tapestry hangings in subtle, light-washed hues brought warmth to the room even in Midwinter. Chairs were drawn near the fireside, where her mother sat with her ladies to work or make music.

With an eager smile, she indicated a chair for Domna Hokeenlow, and seated herself. "What must we do, kinsman?"

Algar smiled. "Simply relax, Damisela, and let yourself become conscious of your matrix. When you feel my mental touch, link with me. Can you do that?"

Shavanni nodded. "Oh, yes. I have often linked with Domna Margali, and they taught me a little more at Arilinn."

"Good. Just relax."

Shavanni sat quietly, and turned her attention to her matrix. Always there, always part of her, rarely noticed. But even without looking into it, a thought could bring it... well, she thought of it as alive. Behind her eyes, she became conscious of the strange, slow motion of blue ribbons of light, but that faded.

Then another mental touch, whisper-gentle. Unintrusive. Waiting. She reached, and it was like meshing wrists in a steadying grip. Algar Ridenow's mental 'touch' was cool, with the faintest of vibrations to it, like the metal of a struck bell just before it fades to silence.

"Good," she felt his approbation. "Now, find the link with Domna Hokeenlow," he guided her gently. She felt her own consciousness, filtered through his imagery, his awareness, the unique Ridenow donas seeing the connections with others, like a web of threads stretched on a tapestry frame. Her parents, her brothers, Domna Margali... Strong, thick threads, glinting and resilient. A surprisingly robust thread to Dom Gabriel, but why was she surprised? She liked her prospective father-in-law. A thread like a fine wire, that she shied away from, almost instinctively-- Esteban. Myriads of others-- to Merris, to old Kathya, to Captain Stefin who had put her on her first pony--

----and there, among the others, a light, strong thread, humming like a harpstring. And at the other end---

Karen. That was clear. A jumble of images, not quite so clear, but now she knew that Karen, Karen Hokenlow, was indeed the leader of her people. And she came from unimaginably far away.

The faintest of nudges from Algar. She withdrew. Karen was unsure what was happening now, a little uneasy at the mental touch. No more. But now... "Is that it? she asked Algar silently.

"Try." he prompted.

Shavanni turned to Karen and smiled, tentatively. "Did it work? Can you understand me, Domna?"

Oh, I do hope so, she thought.

Karen was puzzled by the jewel, wondering what it meant...and what in the world it had to do with talking. Was this a ritual? She had made herself relax a bit, made herself be open minded....
Because Shavanni longed to speak with her, hoped this would work:
well, what would work?
How did she know?
Karen's eyes widened...
She felt a sudden rush of feelings, images in her mind sharply clear, scents and touch and sound...
Her father's wry farewell, his balding head, shrewd blue gray eyes, his affection and formality mingled, white uniform and decorations...
Flying like a bat out of hell in her Wachtmeister, screaming down like a falcon among Iesus Christian Fokkewulfe 303s...and it was like a game, the instruments as always mere toys beside her knowing what to do...
The smell of cattle and wheat, running nearly naked as a child with grass whispering around her legs
The comraderie of the other cadets, doing shirt tucks and inspections...
The orderly hedges, paved streets, fountains and oh the gardens of home, Lavenrunz...
And the she was hearing Shavanni, clearly. The words being formed were strange--yet she understood them!
Her first basic reaction was fear--but she was too well trained to give in to it.
She spoke, clearly saying, "What have you done?" her blue eyes wide.

Iolanthe and Anna

Disorientated, still enthralled by an inner world only visible to her, Iolanthe turned to Anna with a blank expression on her features and eyes that seemed to look right through her friend.
As her mind shifted gears, realigned her with her surroundings, she glimpsed the monitor she’d been gazing at flicker, briefly become static.
It made Iolanthe wonder if anyone had noticed how often her presence tended to disrupt electronic equipment. The more sensitive, the worse it seemed her effect.
Good thing I don’t work around anything more important, like engineering or flight control!

The static phased out, the image of Cottman VI suddenly reappearing, swimming in the black of space; studded with myriad stars. A moon was making its way round the curve of the planet, but Iolanthe pushed aside the impulse to watch it grow; a sphere of pink quartz.

“They’ve persuaded the locals to make room for us?” She asked Anna, smiling and making an effort to focus on her friend. She’d liked Anna Kiesel from their very first encounter and while Neodie remained distant, Iolanthe had found herself quickly striking up a firm friendship with the cartographer. Surprising how well we get along. Normally people avoided her. She finished sentences, intuitively knew more than they would normally reveal even to an inner circle of intimate friends and generally raised eyebrows among what Neodie referred to as ‘respectable company’. “Do feudal systems usually acquiesce so smoothly to foreigners setting up a realm within” or if our politic have their way, around “their own kingdoms?”
She laughed suddenly, picking up a stray idea that possibly originated in Anna’s own mind; she’d smiled at something Iolanthe had said. Interpreted something in a different light, no doubt.

“It’s certainly going to make our jobs a lot easier, isn’t it?” She frowned, Iolanthe had anticipated a greater challenge; although some part of her mind had clearly understood that botanical explorations would play the smallest role in her future.
She’d still wondered about the alien ecosystems she’d encounter and racked her brain with ideas on how to best introduce the plants growing in the hydroponics garden aboard Beowulf. Of course, that wasn’t for her to decide; Iolanthe was hardly a senior member of the botanical department.
Even then, she’d no doubt that administrative interference would undoubtedly corrupt any plans that were proposed; Neodie would know all about that.
However lowly her status within this department, it was a role to which she’d quite obviously been born.

“Do you dream about them,” she asked Anna. “The locals?”
The desire to confide in her friend had grown steadily, Iolanthe was certain that Anna would not belittle her strange ideas, or ‘beliefs’ as her sister spoke of them. Laran. She cast a glance over at the planet on the monitor, watched as a line fuzzed the imagery and forced the sharp spike of excitement down. I’ve this romantic notion of the two of us disappearing into an exotic realm Anna. Hardly unlikely, considering that you’re here to map the world and I’m here to classify fauna. She wondered if she’d ever dare give voice to her secret thoughts, eyes glimmering with secret mirth and gave Anna another wide smile.

Lirielle

Lirielle’s brows were furrowed again and she made a deliberate effort to smooth her forehead. Caitlyn seemed determined to keep her rooting through her every memory to uncover any hint of Tower related conversation she’d ever overheard or been told.
Haven’t I come here to learn? She blushed as the thought escaped her mind, hastily concentrated on her barriers as the members of her family had taught her. It was all still very new to her, but she’d hoped not to make such silly mistakes in front of the Leronis of Arilinn.

“I know that the life of a Keeper if fraught with difficulty,” she said hastily, trying to cover for her lapse. “It isn’t an easy path and devoting yourself to this life is to deny yourself another kind of future.” She hesitated, then added, “There can be no companionship for a Keeper as there is between any ordinary man or woman of Darkover.” Even to touch is something of a taboo. The thought surfaced as she spoke, but remained firmly behind her barriers and she allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. Had Jeran told her that? “The rest Leronis, I hope to learn.”

She glanced at Elanna, almost telegraphed her relief to have another friendly face in the chamber. It was not that she found Caitlyn frightening, but rather the knowledge that the Keeper of Arilinn held her future in her hands left her feeling very intimidated. Caitlyn was Leronis after all.
She drew in a breath, turned back to Caitlyn and answered her final question as best she could.

“I know that while I was going through the threshhold sickness, Jeran did …something. I can’t quite remember it clearly, everything is very clouded for that time. But I recall him being closer to me than I’d ever felt him.” She bit her lower lip thoughtfully and tried to put the vaguely recalled sensations into words. “It was like we were breathing for each other.” She shook her head. “No, like he was breathing for me.”

"Aldones be praised!" Shavanni's face lit up. "How wonderful! Karen, my kinsman here, Dom Algar Ridenow, has the Ridenow donas. He used the rapport we had already established, to open the language centers in your mind, so that we can talk freely. And soon you will be able to understand cahuenga, we hope, and talk freely to anyone on Darkover."

She turned to Algar, smiling. "I am in your debt, kinsman, and in the debt of your Tower." She chuckled. "That makes two Towers I stand indebted to. Pray Avarra I can repay!"

The stocky, greying laranzu rose, and bowed. He had seen more through the three-way link than perhaps either woman knew, and he had much to think about. "It is my honor, Damisela, to be of service to a kinswoman. And a great honor to meet such an unusual guest, from so very far away."

He addressed Karen Hohenloe. "I suspect, Domna Hohenloe, that your coming brings great change to Darkover. This is not necessarily a bad thing, for that which fails the test of change, dies. Nevertheless, have a care to thoroughness, rather than swiftness. You will find the true riches of our people and our Domains in some surprising places."

He smiled. "We leave for the Monastery of St. Valentine-of-the-Snows in the morning, and from there, I return to Neskaya Tower. So I will take the opportunity to make my farewells now. All the Gods smile upon your journey, and should you ever come to Neskaya, you will be welcome."

With a bow to both women, he left the solar, collected his brother, and made their formal good-nights and farewells to the Lord and Lady of Storn. As he left the room, he caught the gaze of the heir to Aldaran following him sharply, and he suppressed a smile. That one was in for a surprise, and long overdue, perhaps.

Back in the solar, Shavanni drew a deep breath. She had so many questions, she didn't know where to start. But it would be rude to interrogate a guest. One question, then--just one. Or maybe two--

"Karen, are your people truly from a world beyond the stars? Why did you come to Darkover?"

“This one might be a Keeper,” Caitlyn told Elanna privately. “She appears to have many of the necessary qualities, and her laran is strong. It remains to be seen if she has the physical resilience to endure the training, and whether she can respond to the preparations.”

Elanna nodded, gravely, and told Lirielle “What Jeran did is similar to deep monitoring. You might think of it as the next level up. Normally, when we do this monitoring, we cast a veil over the conscious mind, because it is a somewhat… intimate, even painful, experience. We will be going cell-deep, into the very germ plasm that makes you who you are, to examine all of your latent and awakened laran abilities. We will also be examining what your cells can tell us about your physical qualities—your resilience, your body’s natural rhythms and its ability to adapt or modify those rhythms, the mechanisms that keep your body’s chemicals balanced, and more.

“Finally, we will be looking inside your mind and your memories. Everything you know, we will know, even things your conscious mind has forgotten. In recalling these memories, we may awaken old pains, or bring to the surface things that you are not even aware that you know.

“We can give you a little kirian, to loosen your barriers and make the initial contact easier, but not enough to make you unaware of what is occurring. It can be quite painful, on… several levels. We must have your full consent, understanding just what it is we are going to do, in order to continue,” the monitor finished.

Caitlyn regarded the girl calmly, neutrally. “Do we have your consent to do this, Lirielle Syrtis?”

Telan Knifeheart looked over at the pack ponies that held the two hali’imyn. Hawkfist had been right. (But then, Hawkfist usually was, and if he wasn’t, no one was stupid enough to tell him.) The Altons were patrolling further and further from Armida, trying to head off the lightning raids, and discover the identity of the raiders. Telan had carefully left a twisted, useless dagger with a battered Aldaran crest on it at the site of the struggle, among the bodies. When the rest of the damned Hastur-lackies missed their companions and found the site, their suspicions would be confirmed.

These two… he didn’t know the various badges and banners that well, but he knew the Alton livery and horse-trappings. These two had been riding Alton horses, and they carried sorcerer’s stones around their necks. That was enough. They would suit Hawkfist’s purpose, if delivered alive, and sufficiently drugged with raivannin to be no trouble. Rumor said the Alton sorcerers could kill with a thought, if they retained the use of their powers. He’d wanted to simply take their sorcerer’s stones, but Hawkfist had cautioned them that even touching them could kill the hali’imyn. And he didn’t want them dead. Yet.

He’d be sure they were drugged again tonight when they stopped at the hidden trail rest, and have Davlin feed them. Two more days on the trail and they’d be approaching Hawkfist’s territory, where they could ride openly. Until then, single file, silent, like ghosts they passed among the tangled trails that led ever higher, ever deeper into the Hellers.

Beowulf

Anna was fond of Iolanthe, and found what Neodie sometimes, rolling her eyes, referred to as the "gypsy" face merely one of the things that made her friend special.
As they talked of what was happening below, Anna admitted that much of it was speculation.
"You know, discipline aboard ship is one thing, but I am wondering if people are considering that things will have to change a bit now that we know there are people there. And yet..." her voice dropped a bit, "You know what the military can be like, though I don't suspect Captain Hohenloe of being that much of a bullet head. Speaking of which..."
her voice trailed off as she heard Iolanthe talking about dreams. Sometimes it gave her a bit of a chill, actually. Yet Iolanthe was the gentlest and most thoughtful of people, seeming content to dreamily work among her plants.
Examining a row of delicate perennials--where would a Lavenrunzian be without beautiful gardens? she listened and then said, "Well, it's funny, I had some odd dreams about the planet but I can't remember them well. But I heard Doctor Kotzebue talking to Captain Hohenloe, and they both certainly did. Interesting, hm?"
She grinned and said, "I really can't wait to get down there. It'll be like the old tales of explorers, having to map a wild and barely settled land..."

Storn Castle

Captain Hohenloe politely rose as she was greeted and introduced. "Ritter von Ridenow, it is my pleasure to meet you, and I am indeed in your debt for your many courtesies. I hope that I may have the pleasure of having you as a guest at some point."

She was a bit apprehensive, anticipating that now the questions would start-- and smiled...realizing that Shavanni shared the feeling. There was little or no doubt. It was as if her powerful intuition had been replaced by knowing.

"It would be better, perhaps, to introduce myself properly first." suggested Karen. "I am Countess Karen von Hohenloe--and I am commander of the Imperial Space Vessel Beowulf, which is how we arrived. We came with a group of other ships that are exploring the rest of this Solar System.
Quite some time ago our Ruler decided that it was time that we explored and found a world beyond our own. You see, our nation--called Lavenrunz-- had become overcrowded beyond all bearing, and thus several groups of vessels left to find other worlds to settle on." she said these words gently but with a certain firmness. "This one--which has few people--has been selected." she took a deep breath but her thought escaped her before she could voice it diplomatically.
And it is my duty to claim it for Lavenrunz.

Shavanni listened to Karen with amazement. The implications of what she was hearing cascaded through her mind in an instant, and they were followed by an overwhelming mix of feelings--so overwhelming that she almost missed the thought that followed them. But the notion of someone trying to "claim" all of Darkover for themselves stunned her. She was in over her head! This was something for Dom Gabriel to deal with, and perhaps even the Comyn Council of the lowland Domains.

She knew, instinctively, both through the brief matrix-enhanced contact with Karen's mind, and through hardheaded native logic based on what she had already observed of the Lavenrunzians, that although they appeared unarmed, they believed they had the capability to enforce this "claim." And indeed, a people who could make their way through the stars in vast ships must have abilities beyond the imagining of any Darkovan. Would this mean war? Would it mean even-- a sharp jolt of fear ran through her at the thought-- the end of the Compact?

Yet she felt friendship for Karen, and knew through their rapport that the woman had integrity and even vision, as well as steely determination to do what was best for her people and carry out the mission she had been given. She nodded, slowly.

"I see. My kinsman sensed true. You will bring great change to Darkover. You want homes, and you will bring your ways with you--ways that will be strange to us." She smiled, ruefully. "Most Darkovans are conservative people. We are very attached to our traditions, and often with good reason."

"There must be a way for this to happen that will improve the lot of both of our peoples, but it may not be easy to find such a way. And less easy to convince men like my promised husband--and others--to consider such a way." She glanced shrewdly at the Lavenrunzian. "And I dare say the same is true among your people, since you seem as human as we are, and humans vary surprisingly little in essence."

"Do you think such a way exists, Karen? And will your-- your mission-- let you seek and employ such a way?"

Karen nodded. She noted something important: Esteban was going to be wed to Shavanni, but not yet. It explained the...peculiarities of the relationship; probably marriage was still formal for good reason among these people, not merely for tradition as in Lavenrunz.
"Shavanni, understand that I am no butcher or mere conqueror; I am a loyal servant of the Crown but at the same time I am also I hope a civilized person. You and your folk have been very generous and kind to us, and we Lavenrunzians take that sort of thing very seriously. Surely there must be areas that are relatively unsettled where we could bring the rest of our people down. You also need to understand--I command the Beowulf but not the whole expedition--ultimately I must try to persuade my superior officer, Admiral von Schiller."
The image of him, in formal dark blues, a grim, distant eyed parade ground glare as he gave his last face to face briefing before the voyage came to mind. Would he be inclined to listen to persuasion?

Shavanni considered. There was danger here, on many levels. And she was not the person to deal with it. The duty to a guest (and Esteban had extended a host’s protection, in the name of Aldaran, to the Lavenrunzians,) was strong and sacred in the mountains. Yet so, too, was the duty she owed Dom Gabriel as overlord. And, she supposed ruefully, the duty she owed her promised husband. But how did all of these compare with the duty she owed Darkover itself?

Conscious of time passing and sense of impatience from Esteban, she temporized.

“I understand your duty to your superior officer, Karen. I owe duty to Lord Aldaran, and it is he who must sift these matters. If the weather continues fair, we will leave tomorrow for Aldaran Castle, and present the matter to him.”

She smiled. “Lord Aldaran is a wise and generous leader, and highly regarded by our people—the people of the mountains. As for the hali’imyn of the lowlands, they are ruled by a King, although I think he is young yet, and under the Regency of Hastur. We do not have much contact with the plains folk, though many of us have kin among them.”

“As far as lands go, I know that Lord Aldaran would like to find strong vassals to hold some of the old mountain fortresses and holdings. Many have been abandoned for years, some have been taken over by bandits and catmen, and the passes which once provided access during the summers have been left to banshees and other evil creatures. But mountain holdings do not support large numbers, and I sense that your people might not be willing to hold as vassals of another Lord.”

“In the lowlands, I do not know what areas might be available, except the Dead Lands, but those will not support life--indeed, they will poison any who come too close. There may be other areas… We have lived at peace with the trailmen time out of mind, but I cannot imagine even the hali’imyn encouraging humans to settle in their forests. The catmen are fierce opponents, and dangerous.”

She sighed. “Even in the lowlands, the growing season is short—herds use much land that cannot be cultivated—many areas are sparsely peopled because they will not support large numbers. Perhaps it was different, once. Still, if your people are not too numerous, who is to say that the Hastur-Lords would not find Domains where you may pursue your own ways in peace? I hope it may be so.”

“For now—” she glanced at the door, “it may be well to keep your own counsel about some of this, until we reach Aldaran. As Aldaran's guest, no one--not even Dom Gabriel himself--may molest you or harm you. You are under his protection, his honor is at stake. In the mean time, I will tell Esteban what we have already guessed—that our guests from beyond the stars have come to Darkover to learn about our world, and perhaps to find homes here, no more. And if I can stand your friend, while maintaining my duty to my Lord and people, I will.”

She canted her head slightly, trying to gauge the effect of her words on the Lavenrunzian. The oath she had taken when Domna Margali had given her a matrix stone would not allow her to probe the woman’s mind more deeply than the fleeting impressions and strong thoughts/feelings that were clearly projected, and even those she was reluctant to examine too deeply. The coming days would tell much.

(post on behalf of Cottman IV)

Karen listened gravely. She was seeing that a complicated political situation existed...
She glanced around the rest of the hall--Doctor Kotzebue and Lieutenant Hochswender had the look on their faces that suggested they were getting tired of hearing conversation they couldn't understand, though Doctor Kotzebue was also making notes discreetly.
Looking back at Shavanni, she sighed, pulling her gloves off, and leaned back. "Well, if there are hostile natives you aren't friendly with, we can either see if our diplomacy would work or if need be fight them. Our expedition is led by and includes veterans of several conflicts, including myself. But for now, let us be discreet. Shavanni..." she warmly said, "I am grateful not only for your kindness, but your offer of friendship. And in turn, if I can honour that and my service as well, I will gladly to so."

(Lav/CottIV read back-- currently Shavanni & Karen are alone in the solar. Proceeding on that assumption...)

Shavanni nodded, gravely. "All the Gods grant there be friendship between us, Karen, and that our duties allow us to maintain it. For now, though, we should return to the Hall. Esteban has told my parents that we wish to continue on to Aldaran tomorrow, though they would gladly entertain us longer. So we will have an early night, and it would not be seemly for us to linger here until after the hosts retire."

She went to the door back into the Hall, and opened it, noting that Esteban had placed Ragal on guard duty. What did he think, that the aging Ridenow laranzu, her kinsman, would make improper advances? She restrained a chuckle at the thought.

They were no longer dancing, and the children had retired, when the two women returned. Shavanni sat down by Esteban. "It is as you surmised, my promised husband," she said demurely. "These strangers are come to learn about Darkover, and our people. I think they are not unlike to the Cristoforos in their thirst for knowledge. And they hope, too, that they may find homes here, perhaps. They will visit Aldaran with us, and present themselves to Dom Gabriel, and discuss the matter with him."

Esteban nodded. "Good. Did you ask them anything about the metal they carry? I think my father would be interested in trading for that."

"I thought it better to allow you and Dom Gabriel to raise such matters with them. The woman, she is a noblewoman where she comes from, the Lady of a Domain. She has an overlord, too, but he is not with them. I think she is empowered to represent this overlord."

Esteban smiled at her. "You did well, Shavanni. If she is the Lady of a Domain where she comes from, it is suitable that she receives the courtesy of Aldaran. We will begin early tomorrow. Aldones grant that she may learn our tongue quickly. Do you think she will?"

Shavanni considered. "She certainly understands me very well, but how well she will understand those without laran and the rapport we have already established, I do not know. I would like to learn her tongue, as well. It might be useful to your father, to have someone in the household who can understand these strangers' tongue."

"A good thought, my promised wife," Esteban nodded, pleased.

"They come from a place called 'Lavenrunz.'"

Esteban tried the word a couple of times. "Odd name. But then, I daresay our names are odd to them, as well."

They listened as Lady Storn's singing-woman finished the 'Song of the Forges,' and then retired, making their good nights to Lord and Lady Storn.

In the morning, Shavanni found Esteban on the rampart of the great Keep. He had requested a message-bird from Lord Storn, and he and the bird's keeper were releasing it. In the courtyard below, between the Keep and the Hall, the Storn servants were readying their horses and travel provisions.

Shavanni followed Esteban down to the courtyard, and found her horse waiting for her. But as she was mounting...

Snow. Swirling snow in lowering darkness, like twilight, and out of the snow, men fighting. The clang of swords. A cry of horror, some strange sound she'd never heard before. A horse, maddened in fear, plunging over the side of a steep trail. Red spots on the snowy ground... A bound man, whose face she could not see...

Blinded, she lurched forward, grabbing the saddle to keep from falling. "The snow..." she murmured. "Esteban, 'ware!... There! Karen! Behind you!!"

In a flash, Merris was at her side. "My Lady! What is it?"

Shavanni shook her head, feeling slightly sick. Slowly, the snow and the lowering darkness left her field of vision. Dizzy, she clutched the little silken bag at her throat, gulping for a few deep breaths.

Esteban, who had heard her low cry, gestured to Beltran, and put his arm around her shoulders. "Shavanni, what is it?" he asked urgently.

Slowly, she shook her head. Dom Gabriel was so pleased at her Aldaran donas, but it felt like a curse to Shavanni. "Esteban, I think..."

She remembered what Domna Margali had told her. "You have the true sight, Shavanni. Though it may not always give you enough information to be helpful, yet it will not lie to you. If others stand to harm, you must share your vision."

She took a deep breath. "I think we are going to be waylaid. I saw... I saw fighting. Men I did not know. It will be in the snow, near twilight, I think."

Esteban frowned. "Today? Tomorrow? When? Where?"

She shook her head. "I could not tell. It could have been anywhere on the trail, where there are steep banks and a drop to one side. I think... I think it was the desperate fighting of outmatched men. Them, I think, not us. But some of us will be hurt. You must guard yourself carefully. I saw one of them try to strike you, I think."

She shook her head. "I am sorry, my promised husband. No more was given me." She closed her eyes, momentarily.

Esteban frowned. "Well, if we don't know where, and we don't know when, there is little we can do but be careful."

She nodded. "I think I would have seen... more, if it had been... worse."

Beltran looked over the party. "We are a large group. What kind of fools would attack Aldaran's banner when so many ride beneath it?"

Esteban was helping Shavanni mount. "Are you certain you can ride? Should we delay a day?" Plainly, he did not like the idea.

Shavanni shook her head. "I will be all right. Perhaps a sweet roll, though..." she rummaged through her saddle pack, finding a roll of dried nuts and fruit, and biting off one end hungrily, though she had just had a hearty breakfast. The dizzying swooping behind her eyes was settling down, now, to just a slight ache and a depleted, empty feeling.

Esteban scrutinized her closely, then looked at Merris questioningly. The woman shrugged. "All right, then. Trenor, Brynar... stay close to Damisela Storn."

Beltran made a few adjustments in the order of the party, putting the Lavenrunzians in the middle, with Shavanni and Merris, followed by the pack horses, and the rear guard Lord Storn was sending with them slightly closer in. Their progress would be slow, with such a large party, but now that they were warned, there would be no lack of alertness on the trail... especially at twilight.

Lirielle

Their words frightened her on many levels.
There were things, thoughts and memories that she had never dreamed of ever sharing with anyone. But she’d lived in a house full of telepaths, logically she knew that very few of her private thoughts had escaped detection over the years. Though politeness had cast a veil over these moments, they’ve never truly been private and so it was unreasonable to assume that Caitlyn and Elanna would learn anything that someone else did not already know.
But this time a Leronis would be involved and Lirielle couldn’t help but imagine that the woman would be judging her on what she found there.
The thought of being so vulnerable before strangers left her cold! But at a deeper level, bubbling up and growing stronger as each moment passed was the realisation that the monitoring would officially start her on a path towards her dreams.

She didn’t trust her voice, eyes wide as she studied both woman and nodded.
Did they need her to say the words out loud? For the first time she found herself wishing that she had some trace of the premonition that rose from time to time in the Alton lineage. She knew that her father possessed the gift and at times she’d glimpsed enough to suspect that it lay deep and hidden within Jeran. Loosing Ysabet elevated it. She frowned at the sudden realisation. Is that what they mean by latent Laran?
Swallowing, focusing her mind she pushed aside all her fears, realising as she did that Elanna had probably followed the emotional journey; shared it.
Ridenow empathy was something she’d begun to understand intimately, until Ysabet’s death; then she’d felt for a time as if she’d known that gift completely.
She risked a smile, knew that her skin was pale.

“Yes,” she murmured, found her voice calm and unwavering and felt her mind find a balance between fear and expectation. “I give my consent. When do we begin?”

Double Posting...

Iolanthe

“No, Captain Hohenloe has always been a surprise to me,” Iolanthe murmured, eyes glazing as she fell into memory. It was an additional handicap in her case, an eidetic memory that could conjure up everything in intimate detail; a weakness in one pre-ordained towards the life of a dreamer.
Neodie had secretly hated her for it, though Iolanthe had tried hard not to let her sibling’s feelings weigh her down. “She has heart, curiously deep and profound for one who has risen so high.”

She’d avoided tackling the issue of dreams Iolanthe knew; drawing away from speaking on too much when her instinct was to open up and tell Anna everything. Sometimes intuition doesn’t take into account how much things will change.

Instead she glanced around, made sure that none were within earshot and said in a low voice, “I’ve another orchid blooming.” She’d smuggled them aboard; tropical flowers had never been part of the botanical species approved for a planet that scientists had already calculated to be well below the temperate mark.

“It’s like spring, a little green slipper.”

It’d been the first secret she’d revealed to Anna and something not even Neodie knew about. Many were already cut back, slipped into thick bottles that she had no idea how she was going to keep warm and concealed among the baggage she’d be taking down to the world below. Yet she knew that at least some of the orchids would survive; she’d glimpsed them in a place that she’d not yet visited.
“Promise me that you’ll come and look before we leave,” she said, looking up at Anna and trying to read something of the future that might lie between them. Can I tell you about the paths I saw, the path I’ve chosen? “I’m dreading cutting her, the blossoms would last weeks longer and this may be the last time I’ll see them.”

She knew that her friend had noticed her skirting around the subject of dreams; knew too that the question would arise again.
Anna was curious where Neodie presumed that she knew everything there was to know. Everything her sister did not know had been consigned to the realm of ‘things Alita’; as though everything but logic was tainted, poison.
Iolanthe blinked, her mouth opened and she almost said something that would have drawn her friend deep into the secrets she’d kept from everyone; recorded only in her diary.
Shook her head. Maybe later. I’m not ready, not yet.

Hawkfist’s Prisoner

Alekandro used the only skill that remained to him; he listened.
Though the howl of the wind could grow in level till it sounded as if the gods themselves screamed; enraged or embittered not even the legends of the highlanders could reveal.

Snatches of conversation proved almost useless, left him with more questions than he’d had before.

And still he’d no idea how many of his squadron had survived the attack, his instincts told him that there would be none to whisper the secrets of the raiders to Lord Alton though. Against his closed eyes he could see the blood, but perhaps it was only the rush of that liquid to his head as he hung over his stallion. Did you survive Bredu? It was the question he’d longed to find an answer to and the question he dared not linger on now. He needed all his wits about him if he was to find a way to escape.

Elanna nodded gravely. It was such a temptation, at this point, to smile, or be encouraging. Especially with such a brave little girl, who tried so hard to discipline her natural nervousness. I see what you mean, she told Caitlin privately.

“Lie down on the couch then, child, and relax.”

When Lirielle was stretched out, Elanna looked into her matrix. Unlike many leronis, she did not wear it around her neck, but rather bound to her wrist, where it rested comfortably against the inner pulse-point, embedded in a copper bracelet that showed an intricate filigreed rosette on the outer side. Ready, she told Caitlin, and the Keeper dropped into rapport, with the ease of custom and practice.

She extended her hand, holding it a bare inch or so from the surface of Lirielle’s skin, feeling for the outer currents of energy that would lead her within. So many times had they done this… The energy flows were clear, almost tangible. Normal, too—Lirielle would not mature into an emmasca, or lack the ability to carry energy normally through the strong channels that served both sexual impulses and laran. Indeed, if she matured to promise those channels would be exceptionally strong and clear. An advantage to a Keeper, but a terrible curse, as well.

Emotions flickered and flared through the energy flows, now distorting them here, now there, mobile and responsive. Also a good sign. With the faintest of sighs, Elanna let surface levels of awareness drop away and sank within, allowing herself to be caught up, carried in the flows, a mote navigating the channels, and at the same time observing from above. Like a golden net, was how her laran presented them to her… and down through the net, to a stranger world yet, of whirling motes frozen in complex arrays—ribbons and lattices and odd, undulating strings of stars. Long experience would tell her what they meant, as far as the deepest-buried levels of Lirielle’s abilities, physical and psychic, meant. And then, only one more task… to move within the girl’s mind, sifting memories and channels and feelings, and exposing them to Caitlyn’s passionless, considering scrutiny.

Rohan Lindir-Aillard wanted to die. He’d failed his bredu, he’d failed Lord Alton, he’d failed his men, and he felt like something dragged from Zandru’s ninth hell—the worst.

He was blindfolded, nauseous, he couldn’t feel his hands and feet (not that he could have moved them even if he could feel them—his muscles weren’t responding to much of anything. Except his stomach muscles, which kept threatening to heave his guts out.) The blood pounded in his head. Opening his eyes seemed like a bad idea, as well as an exercise in futility.

Dimly, he remembered a sudden feeling of uneasiness as they’d rounded the bend in the dry creekbed to reach the path that should have led to the firewatch tower. A rush of arrows—cowards’ weapons!—had taken out several men, and then the clash of swords had rung through the trees. But there were so many of them! Blank shields, again. He’d seen Alekandro engaging two of them, his back to a tree, at one point—had tried to make his way to his side, but he had to keep killing man after man… and then suddenly the tremendous pain.

Nothing for a while. (Blessed, merciful nothing! Why had Rohan never properly appreciated the manifold virtues of oblivion?) Then a seemingly endless arabesque of nightmares, half waking, half-sleeping. Something being forced down his throat, lights exploding behind his eyes, pounding, jolting, rhythmic pain—more nightmares of fighting, the same faces again and again. Joran’s surprised look as the sword took him in the throat, Dellavin’s blood spattering across his face as he ran to try and help him… Glimpses of horses, men he didn’t know, from bizarre angles, as though they were both above and behind him…

He’d shaken his head, once (what a mistake that had been) and then… it might have been a blow, perhaps. Anyway, the white-hot fountain of pain had engulfed him again and another all-too-brief spell of oblivion had provided relief. And now just the endless jolting pain again.

Slowly, bits of real consciousness fought their way back into his head, against his fervent efforts to keep them out. He was on a horse. Head down across its back, his arms stretched under the horse’s belly and secured to the saddle on the other side. He was surrounded by other horses. Occasional voices.

The horse that was carrying him stumbled, momentarily, and again the brilliant flare of pain engulfed everything. He waited confidently, hopefully, for more oblivion, but it didn’t come. A long groan was wrenched from his lips. Someone laughed.

He could feel no trace of Alekandro, but somehow he knew he wasn’t dead. But where was he? And where was Rohan, for that matter? The horse’s motion was jolting, rough, and sometimes he slid against the ropes that held him, as though the beast was navigating a steep slope… Mountains, then.

They were preparing to ride out...and it seemed the real journey had yet to begin!
Karen was now feeling anxious; she felt the anxiety of a captain too long away from her ship. Not that she didn't trust her XO but still....and worst of all, the only way to communicate was by means of the satellite connection, and she was getting worried about the battery.
Time for some strategy.
Talking with Kotzebue and Hochswender, she explained during a rest stop, "It is my intention to order a dropship to be on standby for pickup at all times, with a group of search and rescue experts on it. We haven't yet met anyone willing or able it seems to negotiate a treaty. I am hoping we will when we reach Aldran, I think it's called, but until then..."
They both nodded grimly.
"I am sure that they are not actually hostile, but I think that they just dont know what to do with us." she finished. "So...keep on your toes. Lieutenant, I'd appreciate it if you would pass that on to the other ranks and marines present."
"Understood, Captain." Hochswender said. "What about this threat of bandits?"
Karen gave him a level CO's look, it brooked no question. "All members of the crew are to be armed at all times."
"But what I meant is, how do they know?"
Karen was a long time in replying; she sighed and said at last, "When I know, Lieutenant, I'll tell you. Let's go, they want to move out."

Beowulf


O Lord in Heaven
Who on High
Spreads stars and planets
O'er the sky
Who Hand the void
Did fill with life
Who stands above
Mere human strife
O hear us long for
Heaven's grace
For those who voyage
Deep in space.
Amen....

The Lavenrunzians raised their heads as the assistant chaplain lifted his hands.
"Lord, we do earnestly pray that each person shall be able to do their duty. That we will be able to exercise it within the dictates of Thy commandments...."
Anna whispered out of the side of her mouth to Iolanthe as they knelt, "Did you hear? Another dropship has been sent down. What do you think it means? And the captain is still down there..."

Iolanthe blinked, savoured the information that Anna had imparted.
“Oh I think that our Captain has discovered that there is more to the local people than at first meets the eye,” she held back her laughter; kept her voice low though it peaked like distant notes of a high-pitched bell. “And that the world we’ve reached is rather more resistant to technology than expected.” I don’t think that Karen Hohenloe is going to like the mountains, I don’t think she understands how extreme that environment is.
She frowned at the thought, it offered up surprising information and had given her a glimpse into the Captain’s situation; a flash that was no gone again.

“Below us is a world that thrives in mystery, it isn’t a surprise really on a planet like Darkover-“ she snapped her mouth shut, realising her mistake too late. She ran the word through her mind. Did it seem even remotely akin to Spanish? The inflections were all wrong, she decided and knew that even if she claimed it was a slip into her mother’s native tongue, she’d let too much time pass for Anna to accept it. Casta. That was the local dialect and that was Spanish enough, pity it could not have been that word I let slip.
Oh Io, what have you done?

She clenched her fists and sneaked a peak at her friend, caught the inquiring glint in her eyes and sighed.
I need a distraction. She opened her mouth and said the first thing that came to mind. “When we go down below, I’m going Native Anna.”
Out of the oil and into the frying pan…

There was a brief reprieve as the Chaplain made his way past them. Christoforo. The knowledge kept blossoming in her as though spring had come to Iolanthe’s mind; a garden that had long remained trapped beneath frosted earth had been unleashed. She could not hold it back now that she’d encouraged it, willed it to life.
Back in Lavenrunz everything that she was had conditioned her into the role of dreamer, now she could feel how another world and another way of thinking would change that.

On Darkover she’d emerge from a lifelong cocoon to be the creature she’d been born to be. Leronis. She noted the word sadly, knew instinctively that she would never have the time to even begin walking that path.

“I’ve found myself Anna,” she whispered. “It only took me twenty three years and a trip halfway across a galaxy to come home.”
She looked up, found her friend searching her face. Knew that only her eyes were evocative of the Lavenrunz gene pool; brilliant blue like laser-lit sapphires. Her long dark hair made her skin seem paler, but a touch from her friend only showed the golden hues that shone in a Mediterranean complexion.

“There’s a lot I have to tell you,” she finally admitted and felt as though a weight had suddenly lifted from her shoulders. I’ve been keeping secrets from the only person here I wanted to share them with. She turned away from Anna and knew that she’d tell everything the moment they could get away from the gathered colonists and crew. Breda. What a strange word, she thought. The concept however is incredibly beautiful, best-friends seems to pale away into insignificance.

“Breda,” she whispered and wondered if Anna heard.

[OOC: Consider Anna informed; rather than repeating everything from prior posts take it from Anna’s reaction to these revelations. Is her friend delusional, or is it something more…]

Lirielle

Lirielle bit down on a sudden surge of terror, ignored the discomfort that swelled over her. It felt as if something cloying and alien were seeping into her flesh, into her bones and worst of all into her mind.
Her heart grew skittish, erratic and for a moment she felt it threatening to cease its life-giving duties; till a force reached out and steadied it, Elanna.
Rainbows flared behind her eyes, as though the veil of Arilinn had suddenly opened within her head; memories flickered.

…finding the dead Verrin Hawk while walking with Ysabet and Jeran; the cold tension that had etched itself on his features then. Only now could she imagine the finger of fate laying over him, foreknowledge that he resisted…death far closer to home...

…a furtive moment steeling cookies from the Armida kitchens rose along with the heavenly scents of home; spices and fragrances that seemed only to reside in the ancient home of the Altons…

…her first ride on a horse, a sleek but docile mare whiter than the fresh fallen snows; dead three winters later. Lirielle had the last of this beautiful creature’s offspring for her own, had ridden her to Arilinn…

…and something she’d never imagined lay within her mind, a treasure that instinctively she clung to. A bright eyed face gazing down at her, golden gaze like liquid honey. It was only a glimpse and not enough to paint a complete picture but Lirielle understood that after many years of searching she’d finally found her mother…

She felt something flowing through her, yet not of her. Had someone recognised her mother? Elanna or Caitlyn, she wondered. Then a sharp pain banished all questions from her mind and she felt herself drifting, memories passing fluidly now in a stream that seemed a river. Who knew I had such memories in me? How great a river must flow in those far older than I?

Shavanni and Merris rode with Karen and her officers, in the center of the cavalcade. She was reluctant to ask too many questions—aside from the question of manners, she was grasping that the Lavenrunzians regarded themselves as a military force, and questions might be inappropriate—but she gathered a fair amount of information just from casual exchanges. And she was free with her own information, pointing out and explaining various Darkovan flora and fauna, geographic features, etc. Once she caught the general gist of the Lieutenant, Hochswender, making a remark about the cold, and she laughed. “Cold? We are only a few tendays off of high summer! This is warm weather.”

Half appalled, half-humorously, Karen seemed to translate that for her people, and Shavanni had to restrain a chuckle at their expressions. But it was true. The weather had held remarkably fair, with only a few snow squalls at dawn and dusk. As they rode further and higher into the mountains, of course, areas where the ground remained snow-covered increased, but there were plenty of clear spots where they could build fires and spread sleeping furs and be quite comfortable for the night’s rest.

And occasionally they passed through one of the high mountain plateaus or shallow bowls between mountains, where a village or two nestled, and herds were pastured, and even a little cultivation could be seen. There was a big one near Aldaran Castle, home to the village of Caer Donn. Many years ago the village had been much larger, but it had dwindled somewhat, and there were plenty of clear, sunlight vales and meadows where the days grew positively hot, (well, by mountain standards) around Midsummer.

Once they took a whole afternoon’s rest, and Esteban had his men bring out hunting bows and shoot fresh game. They had no hawks with them, so Shavanni could not help, but she showed, with efficient sign language, some of Karen’s people how to help clean and prepare the game, and they all ate very well that night.

The slow pace of the journey helped ease the transition to the higher altitudes. Shavanni had heard that some lowlanders got sick, on the highest mountain trails, but the Lavenrunzians did not seem too badly affected. Of course, they weren’t really all that high, here. Not like around High Crags, or Sain Scarp.

Every afternoon, as the crimson sun started to drop behind the mountains surrounding them, Esteban tightened up the riding line, sent one or two scouts ranging afoot ahead, and made sure that his men had their weapons ready and loose in the sheaths. So on the fourth or fifth day, when one of the scouts came running swiftly back, he flung up a hand, and the cavalcade halted, silent.

The scout—it was Brynar—was talking in low, urgent tones to Esteban and Beltran. Uneasily, Shavanni glanced at Karen. “Brynar has seen something—or someone,” she murmured. “There should not be anyone here, on these trails, but travelers to and from Aldaran—or High Crags. And High Crags has been untenanted, tended only by a coridom and a few herdsmen, for many years now.”

Esteban nodded sharply to Brynar, and directed him, with a gesture, towards Shavanni and Karen. Beltran had wheeled his horse and was picking his way back among them (fortunately the trail was fairly wide, here) to the rear guard. Esteban was talking to the men up front.

Brynar approached. “Damisela, Domna,” he bobbed his head respectfully. “There are tracks on the trail ahead. A large party of mounted folk passed over in the direction of the Emmetral not too long ago. But since the avalanche last spring, that trail is dead-ended. It could not possibly have opened, by this time. Dom Esteban believes that whoever it is might be hiding in the Emmetral Cleft. We will be going to see, and Dom Esteban asks that we move you and the pack horses to the rear.”

With some maneuvering (there were no really wide spots on the trail between where they were and the branch to the Emmetral) this reordering was accomplished, but it took some minutes.

By the time they had started off again, it had started to snow. And dusk was definitely closing in.

So it was no surprise when the desperate men, trapped in the cut-off Cleft, decided to seize the initiative, and attack first, clattering down the trail with ferocious yells, and loosing a volley of arrows as they approached. Fortunately, the dusk and snow were not the most conducive conditions to accuracy, but some of the bolts found marks.

“Filthy cowards!” Esteban’s bellow was followed by an inarticulate roar of rage and a weird kind of delight as he charged at the foremost opponent, a big, bearded man riding a horse far too big and clumsy for mountain work. In an instant, the melee was close and confused, hand-to-hand, difficult to see, in the gathering gloom. But the men of Aldaran and Storn knew one another well, and of course the Lavenrunzians were distinctive, with their odd clothing, even under the fur cloaks some had accepted, so it was a matter of simply trying to kill everyone they didn’t know, and not get killed in the process.

From back where she waited, with a fluttering under her stomach but outward calm, Shavanni, too, gasped with rage. “Arrows! Outlaw scum! Cowards! Zandru take them all!” She bit her lip. There would be wounded to tend, and the light was definitely going. She sidled her horse closer to one of the pack horses, and untied a strap. She thought she’d left the healing supplies in here…

The relative narrowness of the trail, and the sheer drop on one side, made the melee a desperate affair. Once, with a horrible scream, man and horse slid over the side—it was too confused, and the light was too dim for Shavanni to tell if it was one of their men or one of the outlaws.

Her eyes were glued to what she could see of Esteban, which was how she missed the dark figure, on foot, creeping between the rocks on the high side of the trail, and the pack horses. The scream of a horse, deftly hamstrung, alerted her, and she saw the dark figure loom suddenly, close…right next to… “Karen!” she screamed, and fumbled in her cloak for the dagger she carried there on the trail, as Trenor lunged across the front of her horse in the direction of the outlaw.

Hochswender was frustrated from the start, at being held back from possible action, but Karen was adamant about this.
"We have no idea what warfare around here means. This is still a diplomatic mission, and unless directly threatened or the success of the mission depends on it I don't want us involved." she said.
But as the tension rose up, Karen found herself agreeing with him in spirit at any rate. It was somehow worse not to be consulted, not to have a direct hand in preparing defenses.
When action came, it was, of course, on a high narrow trail where you could scarcely tell the attackers were human beings...arrows came flying, or crossbow bolts, it was hard to tell, but Karen was so surprised by Shavanni's cries about cowardice that she really wasn't looking at that point.
"Just like the middle ages." frowned Kotzebue. "Crossbows used but not liked, not admired--and--"
"Could you perhaps save it for another time?" suggested Hochswender. He and the marines had their G211s at the ready, crouching as near to the rock face as they could.
Karen was wishing they had drones with them, and then remembered...she said, "Sergeant Kammler, have someone fire an illumination flare! Give us some light!"
"Yes, Captain!"
Moments before it fired, she heard Shavanni cry out her name, and simultaneously heard a faint sound behind her, barely audible in the sounds of fighting...
Ducking and whirling around, she found herself face to face with an armed ruffian, and faintly glimpsed shadows of others there...it might have been her imagination, but she had no time to yell, to do anything but raise her pistol and fire three rounds.
BOOM!
The illumination flare caught everyone in the initial flash as if they had been struck by lightning. "There they are! Get them!" roared Hochswender. The G211s fired short blazing bursts at the flare slowly drifted down past the mountain.

The noise rolled like thunder in the mountains, roaring and engulfing the close-packed fighters. When the dazzling light seemed to shoot up out of nowhere, a few of the struggling men halted abruptly, only to be spitted by more intent (and now more-visible) opponents.

But some of the bandits shrieked "Hali'imyn!! Sorcery!" And another man in an insane frenzy of fear, trying to push past the mass of horses and men, lost his footing and followed the flare down into the yawning void, with a terrible cry that mingled with the echoes of the shots.

Trenor, who had been lunging for the bandit menacing the women, suddenly felt a blazing pain in his shoulder, and was propelled forward onto the astounded (and very dead) bandit. The bandit's knife, jammed between his belt and sword-sheath, sank into Trenor's thigh as they fell. His sword clattered from his hand.

In the narrow trail, filled with knots of struggling men in close, hand-to-hand combat, some shots found marks, but others ricocheted furiously, menacing friend and foe alike. Shrieks of "Cowards!" and "Sorcery!!" rang from both bandits and the men of Aldaran and Storn. The flare illuminated the heavy snow swirling heavily in the twisting wind currents of the narrow trailpass, further confusing some of the fighters, who struck out blindly at both friend and foe.

Shavanni looked on in horror. "Karen! Make them stop!! Oh, Gods... No..." She looked at the Lavenrunzians as though they'd spring from Hell in Zandru's train, firing some kind of horrible cowards' weapons in the flaring, uncanny light.

By the time the echoes of the shots had died away, and the flare was fading, most of the bandits were dead. One, however-- a massive, ferocious man wearing a leather jerkin with a tooled crest of a dagger piercing a heart--was still fighting one of the Storn men, when Beltran ran to help. "Don't kill him!" the Captain shouted. They needed at least one bandit alive, for questioning. Another Aldaran man closed as well, and then another. With four to one against him, the outlaw shouted "Your end is coming, Aldaran scum!" and launched himself over the edge of the abyss.

The silence that followed seemed louder than the echoing shots, punctuated only by the moaning of the wounded.

Esteban, himself bleeding from a cut that would leave a scar down the left side of his face, and a long, bloody laceration on the arm that might have been either a bullet graze or a sword cut, tried to take stock of the damage and make sense of what had happened, at the same time. His first thought was for his men. He looked around. Trenor was down, unmoving, near the back, where Shavanni had slid off her horse and was bending over him.

Two of the Storn men were dead, one missing--he must have been one of the ones to go over the trail-edge. Piedro MacFyon, too, who had served Aldaran all his life, was lying lifeless across the body of a slain bandit.

Brynar was wounded, but he was on his feet, assisting a Storn guardsman to lean against the rocky side of the trail and sink slowly down to sit. Kerris, Beltran, and Hedren were looking after others. Ragal...

Esteban swore. Ragal had taken an arrow in the throat, and lay where he had fallen from his horse. The man had been his body servant and trusted friend since... well, since Esteban could remember. "May Zandru welcome them with ice whips and scorpions," he growled.

Beltran had glimpsed the Lavenrunzian firing their strange weapons, but the shock that had engulfed him was short-lived. He remembered what Shavanni had said about them being from another world-- clearly a barbarian place that had not yet developed civilized notions of honor. But they could not be blamed for their world's backwardness. Still, it would have to be made clear to them that such weapons were unsuitable for use on Darkover--especially in the mountains! He shuddered as he remembered how one of the strange bolts had cracked into the rock next to his head and whizzed past his face with a hairsbreadth to spare. He felt the spots where rock flakes had spattered his cheek, brushing off the spots of blood.

"Dom Esteban..." he went over to where the heir to Aldaran was bending over Ragal's body. He was a horrid sight, with that bleeding cut on his face, but Beltran could see that it was not too deep. "My lord, we should check-- there may be more of them, hiding. Waiting..."

Esteban stood, nodding. "You are right. Take Brynar and Hedren, and scout into the Cleft, see if they left any stragglers. And see if you can find any packs or baggage, perhaps it will give us some clues. Naotalba greet that scoundrel at the bottom of the void! It would have been useful to have someone to question. But I think these are Hawkfist's men, nonetheless. The rest of you, help the wounded to the rear."

As Beltran and the other two moved off through the snow into the dark trail yawning ahead, he turned back to assess rest of the damage.

(OOC: I know a cue when I see one.... BTW, Alton, please check TGs)

In one of the semi-lucid intervals precipitated by a halt of the rhythmic, throbbing jolt of the horse's motion, Rohan could hear an incredible sound--like all the thunder ever spawned in the Hellers ringing and echoing at once through the rock faces. It startled him so that he actually tried to open his eyes.

Mistake, of course. But not as bad as it might have been. He could actually recognize what he saw when he moved his head slightly (at least, after the exploding stars behind his eyeballs died away.) Snow. Rocks. Well, that was useful, he thought ironically. There couldn't be more than a few hundred million places on Darkover where one could obtain the same view. He let his head sag again, and the view reverted to the underside of a horse, plus assorted fragments of his own boots, and snowy ground.

It took some moments to occur to him that the thunder had died away and with the return of silence...

Silence?

He'd had the distinct impression that there were many men around him.

With a groan, he again lifted his head, eyes closed, letting the pain have its gaudy display under the eyelids and then die away. With an effort, he opened his eyes, and turned his head slightly. Another horse stood nearby, and another, both laden with packs, or... something.

Something?

"Bredu?" he croaked. As he did so, he could hear another voice, from somewhere behind him, say something involving "Zandru!" in the mountain dialect. He really wasn't up to translating at the moment, he thought, dizzily.

He tried to twist his head a little further, to get a look at the speaker, but the effort was too much. With a grateful sigh, he returned to the comforting arms of oblivion.

Karen was regaining her breath. Ground combat was not exactly her thing...she was also aware that the Darkovans were horrified, distressed and shocked by the display of weaponry by the marines.
Hochswender said to Kammler, "Keep alert...see if you can help them secure a prisoner."
"Yes, your Honour." Kammler ordered one of the marines to accompany him as he clambered up around a large rock to where some bodies were feebly moving.
Doctor Kotzebue muttered, "Now it makes sense, Captain...they only use hand weapons. Some kind of code of honour involving it."
Karen nodded.
But they are not cowards' weapons. If Shavanni, Beltran and Esteban could only understand...it takes matchless courage to be an Imperial Marine; you have to be capable of moving steady into fire like that and focus on the mission and your team. It is only a different kind of war...
However, she was also feeling a wariness. This was not yet the culture clash; it was only a touching of the fingertips...

Beowulf

Anna waited till the chaplain had passed before replying to Iolanthe.
"You're nuts." she said flatly, darting a wary glance around. "Liebchen, how can you go native when you haven't even been there yet? You've just been in space too long. Darkover? What's that?" she began edging Iolanthe towards the door. "What I do think," she said, whispering, her face soft with concern, "Is that something or someone is playing with your mind..."

Shavanni had seen, over her shoulder, that Esteban was on his feet. She bent over Trenor, calling over her shoulder, "Merris! Bring the bandages. Also karalla powder and firi." She looked down at Trenor, sprawled loosely over the body of his erstwhile foe. There was a hole, high on his right shoulder, bleeding steadily. She gathered the corner of her cloak and used it to apply pressure. "Quickly, Merris. Get it all out." She looked up and around, trying to assess the number of wounded in the gathering dark--it was almost full nightfall, now, and one of the Storn men was lighting torches.

In the flaring light she could see Esteban, moving to check on the Storn guardsman sitting dazedly with his back against the rock face. He squatted a little, remembering the man's name. "Ardrin, isn't it? You'll be alright--" he had started, when with a gasp of horror Shavanni saw one of the bloody bandit corpses suddenly leap to his feet, directly behind Esteban, dirk glinting red in the torchlight. She wanted to shriek out a warning, but the breath was caught in her throat.

As she watched the blade begin its descent, in helpless horror, a dark figure rose between her field of view and Esteban. Again, shots rang out, and the bandit lurched back and fell over, dead before the echoes stopped rolling from rock to rock.

Esteban had leaped to his feet and turned in the same movement, his sword coming up on guard, as the bandit jerked thrice and fell, his dirk clattering against the rock.

Every eye was on Lieutenant Hochswender, who was in the act of lowering his weapon.

Esteban opened his mouth, as if to say something, then realized that the man probably couldn't understand him, and closed it again, frustrated. But what would he say, anyway? "Thank you for using a coward's weapon to save my life?" There was simply too damn much to think about, here. Night had fallen and they were in the middle of banshee-bedamned nowhere on a dead-end trail, in bandit territory, with wounded men, women, and a clutch of strangers.

He eyed Hochswender steadily for a moment, then nodded, curtly, acknowledging the man's act. For now, there were the wounded to tend, and-- "Kerris, try and make the Laverunz'i understand that any of the bandits not too badly wounded should be secured, if possible, and see to it that the rest of them are good and dead."

He made his way over to Shavanni, who was still applying pressure to Trenor's wound. "How bad is it?" he asked.

She shook her head, and motioned for Merris to take over from her. "Not good." She stood, and looked carefully at the cut on his face and the long gash on his arm. "All the gods be praised it wasn't worse, my promised husband. And--" she swallowed, and looked over to where Hochswender was helping one of the Laverunz'i who had taken an arrow in the first volley, fortunately not seriously.

"I know," his voice was low, and a little rough. "We have to deal with what is in our cookpot right now. There will be time enough later to unpick this-- Well." She nodded. "We must get to somewhere we can build a fire, boil water, to tend the wounded properly, but where?"

As they were talking, there was a shout, and they turned, to see Beltran, Hedren, and Brynar returning, leading four heavily-laden horses. Esteban went to meet them. "What in the name of all the Gods?" he began, seeing the burdens two of the horses bore.

"The bandit scum were conveying some captives, my Lord," Beltran said grimly.

Esteban's lips set hard, for a moment. "Filth. The Gods do so to me and more besides, if I do not scrape these mountains clean of Hawkfist and his scum before another Midsummer passes." He heaved a sigh. "Now we have to try and get everyone loaded up and make our way back along the trail to the Emmetral Head, and try to find a place to make camp. And this cursed snow won't let up any time soon, so we'd better find a sheltered spot.

"My Lord," offered Brynar, "The dead end back there-- where we found these-- it's sheltered on three sides and plenty roomy. We could make camp in there for the night."

Beltran's instincts rebelled. "With our backs against a wall and only one way out? What if more of these scorpion-ants are slinking around here? We'd be caught like an ice-rabbit in a snare." Esteban frowned. "We have too many wounded needing immediate care to go far, Beltran. I agree, it would be an unacceptable risk, ordinarily. But things aren't ordinary." He looked around, and gestured to the Lavenrunzians. "Even if we are trapped in the dead end, and every bandit in the Hellers descends on us--indeed, Aldones grant they do so!"

Beltran was puzzled for a moment, then he realized what Esteban was referring to. The Laverunz'i weapons. His first, instinctive response was that it would be far worse to rely on such dishonorable weapons than to take the risk of going back along the trail, but as he looked around, he realized Esteban was right. They had no other viable choice, not if they wanted to save the most badly wounded of the men. He gave a curt, almost angry nod. "A ves ordres. Brynar, pass the word, and get the wounded loaded onto the steadiest horses. It's not far."


Shavanni had improvised a rough pressure bandage on Trenor's shoulder wound, and another on the deep knife wound in his thigh. She was moving among the rest of the wounded, assessing what would need to be done for each, when Esteban approached, and told her of the plan. And of Beltran's discovery.

"Captives? Merciful Avarra!" She moved instinctively towards the horses, but Esteban shook his head. "I don't think they're conscious. There's not much you can do for them until we get everyone to camp."

She nodded. "Of course you're right. We've done what we could with field-dressings. But the sooner we can get out of the wind and build a fire and boil some water, the better." She turned to help Merris secure the first-aid items back in a horse pack.

Slowly, carefully, they moved along to where the trail twisted sharply, widened, and vanished into a dark cleft between two towering rock faces. As they rode in, it could be seen in the torchlight that the trail ended abruptly in a tumbled wall of rocks, ice chunks, and snow nearly forty feet high. The high walls cut the wind abruptly, and it was considerably warmer in here.

They built a fire immediately, and set water on to boil. Shavanni, Merris, and Beltran (who had tended many a wound on the field,) began to replace rough field dressings, washing wounds and packing them with karalla powder, binding them up again or stitching them, as needed.

Shavanni insisted that Esteban allow her to tend his cuts first--the facial cut needed stitching at one end, and he looked much less frightening with the worst of the gore washed from his face. The bloody gash on his arm had already stopped bleeding, it merely needed washing and a clean bandage.

As she turned back to Trenor, Esteban went to where the bandits' captives had been cut from the horses they'd been lashed to. They were in rough shape. "Take them over to where they can be tended," he told Kerris and Ardrin. He had Hedrin help kindle another fire. They'd need food, and hot jaco. Anyway, it was something else to do to keep from thinking about the dilemma of the Laverunz'i weapons.

Shavanni was shocked at the sight of the captives. "Merciful Avarra..." Filthy, bearded, concussed-- bruised and cut-- and one had a nasty, festering wound in his side. She was trying to sponge the worst of the filth from one, to see if the dried blood was from a cut or perhaps a nosebleed, when she made a discovery. "Matrix stones?" She looked more closely at the torn, crusted garments. Yes, those were crests. Comyn!

Regaining consciousness was a long struggle for Alekandro; more difficult as fever thickened his stirring thoughts, made logic a complex formula he struggled to grasp.

In the end, it was the pain that drew him quickest from the dark depths of his mind, memories merging and blending leaving him without a solid idea of when he’d finally blacked out.

Rohan? Bredu? His sudden realisation that it was useless, that his mind was still forcefully locked by the raivannin; was followed by the discovery that he was no longer bound.

Pain flared through the knotted muscles and the tight ball of bruised nerves at the base of his skull. Had the raider but brought the pommel of his sword down a little harder… The thought was a dark one and Alekandro Ardais mentally turned away from it as he opened his eyes; groaning.
Though his vision was frosted and the dark of night deepening, he realised that the woman before him was no mere brigand. Feverish thoughts did not overwhelm a lifetime of ingrained awareness. Had he escaped, been rescued or worse...had he been left for dead?

He swallowed, “Domna, am I the only one to live?” he managed, gasped as pain rewarded his efforts. “Raivannin,” he spoke the word with pure horror. “They’ve given us raivannin.”

Elanna had to resist the inclination to buffer the contact, to make things easier for the girl. It would be no favor.

She felt Caitlin examining the submolecular arrays--to Caitlyn, Elanna knew, they presented themselves as music--melodies and harmonies, each note and chord with its own meaning.

'Strong Alton donas--almost as though it had been reinforced--'

Lirielle would master many nuances of mind-to-mind connections with great ease, and probably find command-voice coming almost naturally to her, as her abilities matured.

'A touch of weather-sense...' what random genetic deposit did that ride in on, Caitlyn wondered.

'Good aptitude for perceptual mechanics, she links readily to non-directed energon patterns. Not much fixed-state energy recognition or manipulation affinity...'

'That's what Circles are for,' Elanna reminded Caitlyn humorously. 'Now, let's look at the experiential traces--'

Caitlyn did something slight--indefinable, indescribable--to the rapport, and it was as though they fused closer yet, beyond the need to verbalize, a sharing so complete that for the time, it was as though they shared a single mind, a single consciousness. Aware that the memories they were probing were Lirielles, but only peripherally. It was like rummaging through one's own memory, to determine which trunk you laid by your Midwinter festival garment in.

It was predictable, but encouraging, at first. A trifle of uncertainly, a diffidence, related to that blank spot in Lirielle's conscious knowledge--who am I, really?--common enough in children who did not know a parent. But she had been much loved and carefully raised at Armida...

Caitlyn, who had visited the home of the Altons, recognized the place, homey and comfortable, for all its size, dignity, and effective defenses. It was new to Elanna, but it didn't feel new... more like a reminder of something experienced in a half-waking state.

A strong little will--manifested in a number of stubborn battles over learning stitchery when she would have preferred to be out riding in the hills--balanced by an eagerness to excel, to do her tasks the best, and earn the approbation of Jeran and her father...

And then, as they went below the conscious memory level, it stood out like a beacon--that face. The face that could only be Lirielle's mother.

"Raineach?!?" The contact faltered, momentarily. Instinctively, Elanna reached out to smooth it, throwing a powerful barrier between her own feelings and the rapport. It decreased the efficiency of the contact slightly, but kept the overall communication flowing.

Caitlyn, with a Keeper's control and power, had not allowed her reaction to affect the contact at all, but to Elanna her astonishment and consternation was louder than a shout would have been. "We've seen enough, I think," her mental tone was serene and even. But she added "Lirielle is tired. Let her sleep."

Gently, Elanna released the catalysts that enshrouded the girl's consciousness with the mists of sleep.

They left the girl sleeping, and neither woman spoke until they were seated alone together, high up in the Tower, in the little room off the Circle chamber that Caitlyn used sometimes for a private audience room.

“Holy Bearer of Burdens!” Elanna said softly. “Did we see… what I think we saw?”

Caitlyn nodded, her face grim. “Raineach of Neskaya is forsworn. Oath-breaker.” She shook her head. “I know that Neskaya likes to be a bit iconoclast—and it’s true they have done some amazing work. If nothing else, reviving the psychokinetic transmitter gives them a claim to thanks from all of Darkover. But nothing—nothing can excuse this. Avarra be merciful! Raineach! Dishonoring her Tower and her Circle! And if they are complicit…”

Elanna bit her lip. “It is certainly very bad—to break a most solemn oath, and to live forsworn, to live a lie, for—it must be, fourteen years? But Caitlyn, aren’t you missing a point?”

The Keeper’s gaze transfixed her, bleak and hard. “What point?”

Elanna shrugged, apologetically. “Well… she’s alive.”

Simultaneously, both women turned to look at the place where, if they had been able to see through the Tower walls, they would have looked down upon the monument in the Arilinn courtyard. The monument to a Keeper defiled by rape, who to save her Tower from the attacks of an enemy, concealed her condition, and entered the matrix screens—and died for it.

“You know Desia has always maintained that it is the ability to keep the channels clear, not some mystic quality of an intact maidenhead, that makes it possible for a Keeper to do her work,” Elanna said a little diffidently.

Caitlyn shook her head. “There is so much more to it than that, Elanna… Oh, Raineach, Raineach… what have you done…?”

“And there is another matter,” Elanna said, knowing she was treading on thin ice.

The Keeper’s eyes flashed green, but she just waited for Elanna to continue.

“Well, the penalty for violating a Keeper is to have the offender torn on hooks,” Elanna began, watching Caitlyn. The Keeper nodded, deliberately.

“So, Caitlyn-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn, Keeper of Arilinn… Are you going to lay this charge to the Comyn Council, against Melor-Eduin Syrtis-Alton, Lord of Alton?”

Silence hung tautly in the air. Caitlyn’s face was suddenly expressionless.

Then she shook her head. “I must consider this carefully. You are right. This could set the Six Domains aflame with war such as we have not seen since the Ages of Chaos. Yet a Comyn Lady—a Keeper—holding a position of trust under such a solemn oath—cannot commit such dishonorable deception—such oath-breaking—and not be called to account.”

Elanna privately thought that the whole issue of why such an Oath was necessary in the first place, if a woman could work as a Keeper for fourteen years after losing her virginity without ill-effect, was far more pertinent. But Caitlyn was right—the issue of honor had, perhaps, deeper and wider implications. Any oath-breaking was a terrible thing in the Domains, where being able to trust another’s oath held the fabric of social order together. And the Comyn, by virtue of the special, almost-religious respect they were accorded, were held to the strictest standards of honor. And a Keeper—a position of near-veneration, in part because of her Oath and the standards it held her to—was held to the highest standards of all. If it became known that a Keeper had abrogated that trust—added to the substance of her dishonor—and that the Lord of a Domain had been complicit in the betrayal!

Caitlyn nodded abruptly, as though coming to a decision. “Have everyone meet tonight, an hour before the Circle convenes. Until then, say nothing of this to anyone. See to it that Lirielle is moved to the rikhi’s apartments. Before supper, bring Jeran Syrtis-Alton to me in the Audience Chamber. Until then, I am not to be disturbed.” Abruptly, she stood, and went to the little stair that led from this room to the Keeper’s apartments.

Elanna nodded. “Alright. Get some rest, Caitlyn.”

The Keeper nodded, and left.

Elanna went downstairs, thoughtfully, and spoke to one of the kyrri. “Damisela Lirielle’s things are to be moved to the rikhi’s apartments, please, and when she awakens, she may be escorted there.” The creature nodded, and glided away.

She found Derik Ardais and Melysa Leynier in the hall they used as a daytime common-room. Melysa looked up, idly, as she came in. “Desia was looking for you. She’s still with Jeran Alton.”

“Desia?”

“Elanna! Are you finished monitoring Lirielle? Is she accepted for training?”

“Yes, her things are being moved now. She’s sleeping; you know how wearying the full deep monitoring process can be.” Elanna carefully kept her thoughts light, neutral; but privately, she wondered ‘What training? What will a Keeper’s training be like, from now on?’

“Well, I suppose that’s good news.” Desia was a trifle acerbic, as usual. “But for now, can you join Jeran and I? He has need of you.”

“I’m on my way.”

Karen gave orders for her people to assist with the wounded. The field medic, Mittelstaedt, found a man who had a spurting wound that had been tied up very
well by one of the natives; he busied himself with setting up an IV so that the blood loss wouldn't be too great, but then hesitated...what the hell was the man's blood type?
The Captain seemed to know how to talk some of the local lingo, so he quietly asked her if she could please translate that he needed to do a quick blood test.
Karen explained this; she felt a bit shaken by the experience...it was the fact that she knew nothing of their attackers that was disturbing. Before, in war, she had mostly struck
at other fliers or at ground targets, but they had always been a known enemy. Even when she had had to kill before on the ground during an escape and evade after she had had to abandon a plane
it had been people who she knew wanted to kill her for the uniform she wore.
She found herself...was she feeling what Shavanni was feeling?
Almost on the verge of tears...
The RTO had the umbrella and the radio set up.
Karen went numbly over and knelt beside her.
"This is the Captain. Go ahead. Over." she said into the receiver.
"Captain...we're picking up a lot of ionosphere interference on your....--ation......"
"I'm not receiving full message, say again, over."
"....wait...."
Karen leaned back against the rock, deliberately making herself look more thoughtful than exhausted and disturbed.
The RTO reached into a pouch and removed a chocolate bar. "Captain?" she offered.
Karen shook her head.
The radio barked. "Interference cleared somewhat, Captain. Go ahead, over."
Karen made as quick a report as she could. "Please relay this to the admiral. This is not what we consider to be a general state of hostilities. It is a marauder incident. Over."
"Captain, do you need an evacuation? Over."
"Negative. We will proceed as planned. Over."
There was a moment of silence.
Karen could imagine her executive officer's frustration...she herself had not planned for a journey of days. But now it simply had to be done. People had died for this.
"Understood, Captain. Shall we maintain the dropship on standby? Over."
"Yes. Over."
"Captain, the Admiral wants to know why we haven't begun dropping in the colonization modules. Do you want me to relay communication with the flagship? Over."
"No, XO, you will proceed as I've instructed you, and will relay my report to the admiral. I will communicate with him when we are not in a hazardous position. Over."
"Understood Captain. Good luck. Over."
"Thank you. Captain out."
She stood and nodded to the RTO, and looked to see what the situation was with the Darkovan party. It was odd how readily the term already came to her.

Iolanthe Pfrommer

“Warten Sie meinen Freund, warten Sie bitte,” Iolanthe begged Anna, although part of her felt as if this was the final severing of anything that might connect her to Lavenrunz. Let it go Iolanthe, this part of her whispered from some darkened place in her mind. “You’ve got to at least give my words more consideration than that Anna. Have I really given you cause to doubt my sanity?”

She felt the déjà vu of the moment, words tinged dark and promising betrayal and regret. Neodie, I said pretty much the same at one time to Neodie.

“Listen, just listen and don’t leap to conclusions that I know are much too easy to make.” Neodie’s voice whispered through her mind; her sister had listened at least, though she’d taken a stance and would never change it.

”People like you and mother never realise just how crazy some of the things you say are,” Neodie had said long ago when talk of Iolanthe’s more fantastical notions had finally brought her sister to confront her directly. It’d had been the last time Iolanthe’s psychic feelings had been an issue, there after Neodie had completely ignored anything vaguely ‘gypsy'.
“You don’t understand how narrow is the line between eccentric and just plain crazy.” Despite the fact that it still hurt her, Iolanthe knew that Neodie hadn’t meant it unkindly. They had difficulties but Neodie did still care for her strange sister. Why else would she have allowed Iolanthe to persuade her to give up everything she’d ever achieved at home and risk her future on a distant colony? If I loose Anna, it’ll be the end of a chapter. Iolanthe thought, forced herself to focus on her friend. I don’t need you as I need Neodie, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.

“Ich gehe nicht weg vom tiefen Ende, es bin nicht Raumverrücktheit! Darkover ist das Haus meiner Seele.” She swallowed and tried to explain her feelings and why going native wasn’t going to be as unknown a factor as Anna imagined.

Caitlyn made her way to the Keeper’s apartment—where no one but she, and kyrri who served her, ever came. Ever. That was how it was, for a Keeper.

She had a private stair to her own garden (again, kept by non-human servants, to her specifications—sometimes she even labored there herself, finding the contact with the soil a soothing contrast to her work;) a solar, and a luxurious bath, as well as her sleeping chamber and dining chamber/study. A Keeper enjoyed great luxury—but also great solitude.

Today, though, she was glad for the sacrosanct privacy that gave her time to think. There was a great deal to think about.

Raineach had not trained at Arilinn, and had rarely traveled here, so Caitlyn did not know her well. They’d met Hali when the old King was laid to rest, but mostly they knew one another from working in the relay screens. She’d had a favorable impression of the woman—she was a strong and skillful Keeper. She knew her well enough to find her where most Keepers spent a fair amount of time—in the overworld.

Caitlyn composed herself in her study, almost mechanically performing the disciplines that would allow her to safely leave her physical self behind, and travel in the peculiar noncorporeal representation of Darkover that was the overworld. To one who spent a great deal of time there, it was almost as familiar and comforting as her own garden, but she was never heedless of the risks. Carefully, she monitored her own physical processes, letting them sink to a level that would free her mental energies while continuing to support her body comfortably.

In the strange formlessly shifting medium, she always perceived herself in her Keeper’s working robe, utilitarian but comfortable. But generations of psychic activity had made Arilinn itself an imposing landmark, brilliant and almost solid with the light that represented energy. She stepped away from it, gliding tirelessly through the shifting, misty landscape, now and then seeing an indistinct figure that might have been a telepath wandering in dream-states.

Caitlin knew the landscape of the overworld as well or better than her great-grandfather, the old King, had known the physical world of the Domains. She knew where Neskaya ‘was’ in the overworld, and that was enough. The projection of her mental self toward the Tower was represented as a swift (if insubstantial) walk, as though each ‘step’ covered days of journeying. As she drew closer, she could see the bright, slender spire, the unmistakable presence of the Tower.

It was later in Neskaya—Raineach, and possibly others, would be readying themselves for the screens. Many Keepers found the meditative states that could be entered in the overworld an excellent way of recruiting energies for a night’s work..

And so it proved. Raineach’s presence was unmistakable.

“Raineach.”

The Neskaya Keeper became aware of her. “Caitlyn?”

“Raineach, Lirielle Syrtis-Alton has come to Arilinn to train as a Keeper.”

Elanna found Jeran and Desia in the small solar off the main hall. She was a trifle shocked—he’d been holding himself somewhat in hand when she’d greeted him on arrival, and she’d not seen him since. She’d assumed then that lines carven in his face were the weariness of the journey, but it was clear there was more to it than that. She glanced at Desia, who rose to leave.

“I hope I have the chance to see you again before you leave, Jeran, but if not, may the gods grant you a peaceful journey and a productive Council,” she said warmly as she left.

Elanna, who had more than an average share of the Ridenow gift of empathic sensitivity, had been hit almost like a physical blow when she dropped her barriers to ‘feel’ Jeran. His pain flooded over her like a dreadful thick, grey, tide. Holy Bearer of Burdens! What a tragedy!

Almost without volition—his pain was so strong she could hardly bear even the empathic contact with it—she went to him. “Close your eyes. Relax.”

She stood behind him then, letting her hands float on either side of his neck, around the base of the skull, not touching, but close enough that the warmth of her hands was perceptible. The channels of energy--thought, memory, and feeling--that should have been smoothly twined and steadily flowing were tangled, sluggish, in places stopped altogether so that swollen knots of memory and emotion mingled together and heterodyned in painful discord. Jeran’s love for Ysabet was twisting tighter and tighter into a black abyss of despair, turning ever inward in smaller and smaller circles, like a rabbithorn in a trap.

Taking three deep breaths that focused her autonomic nervous system and put her body’s flows into a slow, strong, regular rhythm, Elanna focused on her matrix, drawing Jeran’s energy into it and matching it to hers, letting the steady firmness wash over and through his energy channels. Carefully, delicately, she ‘reached’ with a deft, delicate touch into the tangled currents. Her mental conceptions of energy manipulation always took the form of weaving or braiding or netmaking; she felt the impulses like strands, to be brought into harmonious order.

For an empath, it was difficult to work without perceiving, and sharing, the feelings—but Elanna was trained and experienced… Getting trapped in Jeran’s tangle of grief and despair and shame would have made her less effective. Still, she knew they were there and her heart ached with sympathy. On a level far removed from her ‘working’ self, she was praying, laying Jeran gently into the arms of the Holy Bearer of Burdens, asking him to help Jeran bear the burden of sorrow and lend him some of the strength that had borne the World Child.

With exquisite precision, she teased the knotted flows into a looser, gentler pattern. Once, releasing a particularly tight cluster, she heard Jeran gasp—quickly, she lifted her awareness to a level where she could check on his physical processes, but they were alright. Tears were starting to flow, and that was a good sign. Healing was beginning.

One last small adjustment… she payed out the memory-channels that were so raw and painful, ‘wrapping’ them in an insulating sheath of happier associations. Delicately, she threaded the awareness of the Ridenow features in the children’s tiny faces into the memories of Jeran’s lost love and bredu, and shifted, with an imperceptible ‘touch,’ the warmth of protectiveness and companionship and delight that he was missing so fiercely into ‘their’ threads in their father’s network.

The grief was still there—would be there lifelong. But it was freely-flowing, now, into the river of time and memory. There it would gradually lose more and more of its stingingly painful edge, and hopefully transform into strength.

During the process, Jeran’s head had dropped into his hands, his shoulders had shaken with sobs… But now he sat more quietly, still desolate, but reawakened to the world outside his pain.

Weary, Elanna sank into a chair. “What a terrible loss, Jeran. I wish there were laran to make time flow backwards and undo such a tragedy.” She sighed. “Caitlyn wants to see you. Before supper,” she looked out one of the narrow windows. “About two hours from now, I’d judge. You should get a nap.”

Shavanni was profoundly shocked. “Raivannin! Merciful Avarra!” Her hands were busy still, sponging away the dried blood and accumulated filth, so that she could assess his cuts. The head wound was badly contused, but not lacerated, and although swollen it had clearly begun healing.

“You and your companion were the only ones we found. I don’t know about any others, I am sorry.”

Domna Margali, who had learned a great deal of matrix-assisted healing at Neskaya Tower, was training Shavanni in the healing techniques. Lady Storn, who insisted on maintaining her own stillroom at Storn Castle and was the most competent healer there, had trained her thoroughly in the use of non-matrix-assisted healing. By Darkovan standards, Shavanni was well on her way to being a skilled physician, and she knew enough to diagnose the complications that would come from adding raivannin to an already concussed system.

“You must try to relax, vai Dom." Shavanni was highly educated; she could speak casta almost without accent, although the faint lilt of the mountains was in her voice. “Do not fight against the raivannin or try to use your laran in any way—it will only make things worse—add to the healing time and drain your energy. We are on the trail, still, and I can do little more than see to your wounds here. When we reach the Castle, we can help. But for now, please relax. Try to sleep if you can. I will bring you some broth, presently.”

With a reassuring smile, she put very light pressure bandages on his wrists and ankles, to keep them from swelling too painfully with the return of circulation, and paradoxically restricting the blood flow further. “You will not be able to use your hands for a while, I am afraid, but I don’t think the damage is permanent.” A closer look at his cuts told its own tale. By her estimation, they were at least three or four days healed—too late to bandage, except for one deep one along the forearm muscle of his left arm. With a reassuring smile, she covered him with a fur rug, and turned to his companion.

The man had fitfully regained consciousness a couple of times, and slid away again, into fever. His head wound was not as bad as his companion’s, but he had a nastily festering thrust-wound in his left midsection that worried Shavanni. The infection was spreading, and she wished Domna Margali were here. It needed matrix-assisted healing. She did what she could, packing it with karalla powder. There was one relatively simple trick that would help a bit. She took out her matrix, and gazed into it, letting the stone amplify her concentration. It was not difficult, as Domna Margali had showed her, to slow down the vital processes a touch. It had to be done carefully, of course—too much would put him into a coma—but a slight slowing would ensure a deep sleep and slow the course of the fever somewhat. It was the best she could manage here, on her own.

Karen asked her for help communicating to Narthyl MacFyon, whose arterial cut one of the Lav’runz’i had been treating. After a moment she grasped what was wanted. They wanted to put blood into him? It sounded unbearably primitive to Shavanni at first—if Domna Margali were at hand, she could simply accelerate the spleen function and stimulate increased production of the man’s own blood—but on the other hand, Domna Margali wasn’t here, and Shavanni didn’t trust herself to try something like that, yet. She watched in fascination as the Lav’runz’i medic carried out the procedure. This was something worth learning! Anyone could learn this, not just a matrix-healer. It could save lives, when men were wounded, or women had a difficult childbirth, far from the help of a matrix-healer.

Carefully, she explained to the Guardsman, “This is a good thing, Narthyl. The healer wants to make sure that he can give you blood that your body can use to get strong again.” Weakly, the man nodded, still a little uneasy, but cooperative.

She was starting to realize just how strange these Lav’runz’i really were. The fact that they looked just like Darkovans, in spite of their odd clothing and devices, had deceived her somewhat. So like Darkovans—they could use the same blood—yet so unlike. She knew, now, that they didn’t understand the Darkovans’ concerns about their weapons, though they were aware of them. They were not cowards—they didn’t think of themselves as such, anyway—although they could not begin to understand why the Darkovans might consider it so.

And their devices were so strange. She’d watched Karen use their communication thing, each night, as though there were something like a Tower in that box (although a none too reliable one, as the occasional burst of frustration had indicated,) but how could there be such a thing, without a matrix lattice such as Domna Margali had explained the Towers used for long-distance communication, or without the focused, matrix-assisted concentration of telepaths who had sufficient rapport with one another to establish long-distance communications with one another?

And now this healing thing. Clearly, although they brought great danger to Darkover, they also brought great opportunity.

She watched until the Lav’runz’i healer put his things away. Narthyl’s cut had stitched cleanly, and if the blood worked, he would need nothing more than monitoring to ensure that no festering set in, rest, and good food, to heal.

Esteban and Hedren had hot food ready, and Merris was helping them distribute it to the wounded. Of the Darkovans, there were only three that were serious enough to need matrix-healing—the lowlander with the festering wound, Vandir MacAnn’dra from Storn, who had incurred a depressed skull fracture when he’d fallen hard against a rock, and Trenor, who still had one of the Lav’runz’i bolts embedded in his flesh. She tried to ask the Lav’runz’i healer about the casualties among their men, using the few words she thought she’d picked up, and sign language.

Karen heard the word laran used in reference to the young man who was one of the rescued prisoners. It made her feel odd...she was sure that not only the jewel but the presence of others like minded had affected her.
"Casualty report, my Captain." said Hochswender formally. "A few light wounds, mostly from people throwing themselves to cover...Kemmerich fell off and is down there somewhere." he gestured into the deep rift below them. "Doctor Kotzebue has twisted his ankle, from when he ducked down from the arrows." Hochswender was torn in his feelings; he felt a little bad that his marines had taken such light casualties compared to the rest of the party, but Esteban had insisted on where they were to be placed.
Karen turned to Shavanni and observed what was going on.
Mittelstaedt showed Lady Shavanni his instruments, as he wiped them clean with alcohol solution. He tried to indicate that he would have to probe into the wound for the bullet and then retrieve it with a clamp, then stitch it closed. Producing an autoinjector, he gave the wounded man a shot in the arm.
Karen went up and explained what he was doing, and told her what their casualties had been. "We should have some kind of ceremony for Kemmerich and the other dead...I'm afraid I don't know what your customs are." discipline warred with grief in Karen; she had never liked losing people, even to accidents. A Lavenrunzian officer was stoic, calm and thoughtful in difficult situations, but sometimes it was very hard to be.

Raineach, Keeper of Neskaya

The Keeper of Neskaya studied the woman who would be her accuser.
Though she gave no visible signs, Raineach was certain that her past had finally been revealed and rather than the terror she had expected could find only relief at the arrival of this moment.
Caitlyn would not have come, speaking her daughter’s name for any other reason. Lirielle, oh Lirielle. As a mother I may well have been the moon for whom you have been named. Distant and unreachable.

“Have you come bearing knifes?” she asked, a sliver of a smile on her lips. In the overworld, her golden eyes were brilliant jewels and her robes more vivid than was casually achieved by any telepath in the silvered ethereal domain. “Are you here to tear away my life for what the gods saw fit to burden me with so long ago?”

Her head tilted questioningly, neat furrowed lines across her youthful brows, high and prominent. Her appearance reflected Raineach Lanart as she had once been, a beautiful woman marred or perhaps enhanced by a pronounced and sharpened chin. Cheiri, her features said to any Darkovan. At some time alien blood had come to be flowing through this branch of the Lanarts.

“I did not know that Lirielle would want to become tenerésteis,” she laughed. Brilliant red hair falling against skin as pale as the snows on Darkover. “How fickle the gods.”

Round the two women, a chamber was forming; austere and mostly empty and Caitlyn could see it for what it was. The Keeper’s private room, not decked with luxury but set to reveal it for what it was. A prison that kept Raineach chained.

Settling into a chair that looked no more comfortable than the stone floor, the tenerésteis of Neskaya looked up expectantly at her accuser. In the overworld, Raineach shone brightly, revealing not only a strength of laran but of mind.

“Are you angry with me Caitlyn, for not revealing to the world the lies that chain a Keeper to her tower?” Her words came soft and inescapable and gave Caitlyn insight into the power that had protected the woman from discovery. “Or have you Caitlyn-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn come to wrap me in yet another layer of chains?” Slender, crimson eyebrows rose above her penetrating eyes. Yet for all her display of strength there was something soft and wounded deep in those eyes.

“We are cursed women, we Keepers, we Tenerésteis…” she sighed, betrayed the agony that was endured daily. Raineach Lanart had not set out to disprove the myths surrounding a Keeper, Raineach Lanart had set out to die! She glanced up at Caitlyn, knew the leronis had guessed the truth behind her decision long ago to re-enter the tower. “I’ve long wondered who could have been so cruel, so deep a disciple of Zandru to have wished such a life on any woman.” Her head bowed, shook sadly before Raineach could bring herself to look up at Caitlyn once more. “Now perhaps the rest of your life, you’ll wonder too?”

Silence fell between the two.
Ask, ask me anything…everything. And ringing like a thunderbolt through the air, Raineach’s shame. Oath breaker!


Jeran-Rathal Syrtis-Alton

The tears were still wet on his cheeks, but Jeran made no move to wipe them away. The grief was still there, still deep and yet somehow Elanna had transformed it. For the first time he could turn his thoughts to the children that he and Ysabeth had so longed for.
No longer reminders of her death, he could glimpse in them now many more memories of her life and her joy; their joy. Of Dartan too, who’d been as pivotal a part of their young family as Jeran himself.

Ardrin, Amyra. I abandoned you. He realised and wondered if there would be time while he was in Thendara to visit the Alton manor house where his sister Yllana had taken up residence. She and Alekandro had gladly taken up fosterage of his children when Jeran too wrapped in grief had simply not cared.
How could my family allow such behaviour? He flushed at the thought of how his loss had drawn a dark veil over Armida even before the raids had become a serious concern. He had much to make up for.

Gradeisu Elanna, gradeisu. He touched her hand lightly, briefly. It seemed right, after she’d shared his burdens and helped him to find the light beyond the dark. “Ysabet would have found great joy in your company. It is a pity that the towers lock away so many of our noble people. Para servirti, vai domna.”
The smile he offered her was, he realised, the first true and unforced smile in a long time. He cleared his throat, embarrassed and deliberately focused on his half sister.

“And Lirielle? She has been accepted to training?” he asked and nodded at the monitor’s reply. “Perhaps during the winter I will return to Arilinn and learn what I can from you Elanna if I may? I feel my laran now as I never did before.” He hesitated, then added softly. “It complicated my grief…didn’t it?”

He wondered too why the Keeper of the tower should want to see him, but it was too much for him to tackle now. Although there seemed a glimmer of strength in him once more, he was still weak and knew that Elanna was right. He should sleep a little, for he would need to leave for Thendara soon if he was to make the next village between him and his destination before nightfall. Jeran Alton no longer wanted to risk travel through the night, his death wish had gone.

Alekandro, Captain of the Guard

Through the fog of his mind, Alekandro caught the words of the woman before him; realised that she was a highlander only distantly.

“Another? Another lives?” The words were hoarse, punctuated by a gasp of pain. Bredu, is it you? He tried to turn his head, found the agony of movement almost unbearable but prevailed. I must know.

“Rohan,” his horror evident in his weakened voice. The man seemed so pale and fragile even through Alekandro’s distorted vision. Live bredu, live. He willed as the last of his strength faded and his head rolled back.
Before the creeping darkness overtook his mind, he whispered their names to the woman who tended them.
“Alekandro-Kyril Ardais and my bredu, Rohan Lindir-Aillard.” His eyes attempted to fix on the Domna, to heighten the importance of his words. “You must learn what you can of these raiders and tell Lord Alton what you discover.”

His last thoughts as he slipped into a heavy sleep were of his wife, Yllana and of their young daughter Miralys. Had she spoken her first words yet, or was it still too soon? Thought gave way to the emptiness of profound sleep.


Melor-Eduin Syrtis-Alton

Though age had wearied his bones, Lord Alton sat upon his large golden-brown stallion as though he’d the strength of his youth still upon him.
Flowing grey locks and a well cared for beard only gave the steely glint of his eyes greater impact.
Round him, there was activity as men combed the tall grasses and brushed aside recent snows seeking clues to answer their Lord’s primary question.
Where was Captain Alekandro and what had happened here to his men?

The sight of so many dead would later give Lord Alton cause to drop his head, eyes to cloud with sadness; but for now he showed nothing of these deep emotions. Instead his knuckles rapped periodically against the sheath of his great sword, perceptive eyes watching for the first sign of some significant discovery on the shameful battlefield.

“Arrows,” he sighed through clenched teeth. “There will be blood paid for this, even if I must take notice to murder on the Lord Aldaran himself.”
And what of my dear daughter, what of Yllana? he wondered silently. If I must go to her with news of Alekandro’s death, I will drive every man able to wield a sword into the Kilghards, to the Hellers if I must to avenge such wrong.

Thoughts of one daughter brought him to thoughts of the other two. Lirielle what madness in your desire and what madness in me to allow it. I’ll never see you and the light in my heart will flicker darker still.
Of his other daughter, Lord Alton could not think without pain slicing through his heart.
“Arbella, when will you forgive me?” He wondered if she still remained in Neskaya, or had travelled elsewhere. Only Yllana would know and it had been too long since Lord Alton had been able to journey away from Armida. “Damn these raiders,” he cursed, then tightened a fist round the pommel of his sword as a guard rose, shouting excitedly; waving something in his hand.

Kicking his stallion gently, Lord Alton moved to intercept the youthful soldier.
“Rafael MacAran, is it not?” The young man nodded, surprised that the elderly Dom should know his name. “What is it that you have there, a blade?”

Narrowing his eyes, Melor spotted the crest upon it and fury ignited within him. But still he preserved his outer aspect, considered the ruined weapon with a cold logic that would not be swayed by emotion.

“Do not touch the blade with your bared hands,” he ordered. “Find one among you with the Laran of touch reading. If there are none, wrap the blade in silk and let no hand touch it.” His eyes rose, gazed at the rising mountains that reigned over the land before them; white and majestic. Will we move troops into the Hellers? Or simply close every passage and let the highland devils turn on one another? His mind could already feel the ache that would accompany either choice, the difficulties inherent in each.

It had been a long time since war had been proclaimed in Comyn Council, but Lord Alton had the distinct impression that something momentous was about to ripple throughout Darkover and though his fragmentary premonition heralded it; there was no knowledge of the nature of this change.
“These men will not bury themselves,” he said suddenly. Voice raised that all the gathered guards might hear him. “We’ve found all that will be found here and before evening, we must be away.” He shivered, some unnamed dread snaking its way into his flesh to curl round his heart.

For the first time, Lord Alton wished that he’d received the Alton donas in full measure. Powerful Laran would have proved useful this day. “Pity I could not keep you by my side Jeran,” he whispered; sent a hand coursing over the muscled neck of the stallion, soothing both horse and rider. “But someone needed to channel that grief.”
He looked south, knew that many vars away lay Arilinn tower.
Why are all my children so far away?

Caitlyn let the silence stretch for some moments, considering. There was much here that puzzled her. Still, she had a purpose to accomplish, painful but needful.

“What we do as Keepers, for our Towers and for Darkover, is too important to waste on folly and vengeance, Raineach. I bear no knives. But neither can this matter be taken lightly, nor allowed to continue as it is. You are willing to answer questions? Good. I have three:”

“How did this come about?”

“Did your Tower Circle know of this? Have they been complicit in your secret all these years?”

“And finally,why did you not lay down your Oath and retire from Neskaya when you knew you had forfeited your right to remain as Keeper? No woman is obliged to serve as Keeper unwilling; the office is too onerous for that. Many honorable women have laid down their oaths, without penalty, and retired when the strain of office became too great. Why not you? Why remain, forsworn and oath-breaker, rather than choose honorable retirement?”

Caitlyn’s mental ‘tone’ was even, non-judgemental up to the last few words, when her anguish at the magnitude of such a betrayal slipped into the words.

He put down the carving tool and looked at the work of his hands, and laughed. It should have been a horse, but the short-necked, thick-bodied, spindly-legged, blockheaded thing would have been culled from any herd on Darkover. He had no more real talent for woodcarving than he had for swordsmanship, or for anything else, for that matter. On the verge of throwing it out, he stopped himself, and grinned at it. He had an odd fellow-feeling for the ridiculous thing. He knew how it was, not to meet anyone’s expectations. To be the cull in a paddock full of thoroughbreds. He set it on the windowsill, and began, rather awkwardly, to try and sweep the shavings off the table into a bin, getting half of them on the floor in the process.

As he bent to try and retrieve some of the shavings, he bumped the table, and the tray of carving tools fell with a crash and a clatter, just as one of the servants came in, and stood looking over the chaos with just the tiniest hint of resignation. “Oh, is it time? All right, I’m coming.” He abandoned his attempts to tidy up, except for brushing the shavings from his tunic, looking up with comic apology.

“Yes, Highness. My Lord awaits you in the presence-chamber,” the man said woodenly, like a good servant should, ignoring the youngster’s conspiratorial wink.

“Sorry…” he gestured at the mess as he went out the door. “I wish… well, never mind. Thank you,” he said, with a diffident smile.

When you are the only short, clumsy, and downright homely member of a family that is renowned for its height, grace, and elegance, you have a lot to be diffident about. When you’re the only one who’s definitely average, among a peer group carefully selected for their exceptional qualities, you don’t have much incentive to acquire a lordly manner, even if you are a Prince, Rafael reflected, as he tried to straighten his clothing and make himself presentable for an audience with his formidable guardian.

Marcus-Kieran Gabrial Hastur of Hastur, Regent to Elhalyn, never gave up trying to make a real Prince out of him. Both his very real affection for the youngster and his conscientious care for the Domains and the Comyn leadership made him anxious that no one (except himself, of course,) should ever have reason to criticize the heir to Elhalyn, the future King of the Domains, Rafael-Istvan Ardais Hastur of Elhalyn.

Sometimes, however, he wondered (as he wondered now, beholding the Heir to the Domains in a slightly frayed Cadet’s tunic with bits of wood shaving all over it and his curly hair in a whirlwind of mess,) whether he’d ever succeed. What sport freak of genetics, he wondered, had dowered the lovely Kyrilinda Ardais and the magnificent Carolin-Robard Hastur with such offspring? Not a trace of red in his close-curling brown hair. He wasn’t the shortest lad in his Cadet class, but very nearly, and incurably clumsy, always pulling “awkward squad” duty for tripping over something at parade, or upsetting a bucket of wash water in the barracks just before an inspection.

There was no trace of the elegant Elhalyn bone structure behind a snub-nosed, round-chinned face further marred by the pitted skin that had resulted from a howling case of adolescent acne. If he hadn’t been a royal Prince, he might have been mistaken for some stableman’s son from the backstreets of Thendara, or a country yokel from a small holding on the demesne at Elhalyn castle, near Hali. Fortunately, his homeliness was relieved by the Elhalyn eyes, a clear, luminous grey, set wide under a broad brow miraculously unmarred and smooth. And somehow or other he had been gifted with a smile that made it almost irresistible to smile back. Perhaps it was the wide gap between the front teeth that gave it such an engaging quality, or perhaps it was the way it lighted his eyes.

The Regent sternly disciplined himself, however, and surveyed the Prince with a grave, businesslike gaze. “Your Highness did not attend the levee last night,” he began.

Ouch. Rafe hated it when he was “Your Highness.” It always meant that he was being found wanting in some way—braced up to it, as it were. “I had promised Gareth and Lisandra that I would take them up to the watchtower and show them the Necklace,” he said reasonably, as though taking a kinsman’s two young children star-gazing was just as important as seeing and being seen at a court social function.

“Your Highness knows that the levees of Council season are an essential opportunity for us to forge social connections and nurture the alliances and ties that keep our Domains strong and stable,” Marcus explained patiently. Rafael flushed a little. He did know, and he’d felt a certain guilty relish in playing truant at the time, but he was aware he’d disappointed his guardian.

“I am sorry, Uncle,” he said, apologetically. “You’re right, but— there are so many of them, and people expect me to dance, and I feel like a fool.” His dancing was even more awkward than his swordsmanship, and nothing could keep him red-faced more effectively than the carefully-hidden patient resignation of the various trodden-on highborn girls and women in their best Court attire.

Marcus felt a certain sympathy for the lad—it had taken him a long time to adjust to Court life himself, upon assuming the Regency, and dancing and politesse did not come naturally to a soldier (as he thought of himself.) But it was a required skill for a ruler, and he’d grimly buckled down and endured it, and now few, if any, suspected how much he still chafed at such functions. Not kind, to take out some of his own well-buried resentment on the lad, but still—he had to learn.

“It’s only during the Council season, and the Festival season, lad. Try to remember how important it is, yes?”

Rafe nodded. At least he was back to “lad.”

“Now, Vendrin is coming this afternoon to measure you for a new suit, so please try to be available.”

“Another one? I just had a new dress-suit!” Rafe was startled.

“Aye, but this one is for the Council meetings.”

Rafe blinked. “I’m to attend the Council meetings this year?” He was aware he sounded like an idiot. He should have expected this—he was almost old enough to assume the throne, and would be assuming it officially during the Midwinter festival, with the formal coronation at Hali next spring. So, if he’d thought about, it was natural that he should be included, now, in the Council meetings. But he hadn’t really thought about it.

The Regent nodded. “You’ll attend. But you’ll not be expected to say anything. Just observe. I’ll discuss them with you beforehand, and afterward, to make sure you’re clear on how things are being handled, and get some idea of how you feel about it. It’s time you started taking a more serious interest in these things. Your voice will carry great weight, in the Council, some day, if you listen and learn, and exercise wisdom and restraint.”

Rafe swallowed, and nodded. He had a very hard time imagining himself speaking out in Council meetings, settling disputes, formulating the various decrees needed to manage royal business, helping to arrange and approve marriages and fosterings, authorizing seisins, enfoeffments, inheritances, and all the other important, delicate businesses his guardian handled so competently.

The kingship, Marcus had told him repeatedly, was what you made of it. Always essentially ceremonial in nature, a King of real ability and powerful personality (as his great-great grandfather Lorenz had been,) could elevate the kingship into a position of genuine power through careful diplomacy and inspired leadership.

Rafael wondered if he was capable of careful diplomacy and inspired leadership. He’d never been expected to inherit; his descent was through the junior branch of the family, but an unfortunate Elhalyn tendency toward breeding girls had combined with the early deaths of his second cousin Lorill, and his father Carolin to leave him the only legitimate male Elhalyn of his generation. There was his nedestro brother Valentin, of course. He certainly looked the part of King more effectively than Rafael. And he was a far, far better swordsman. In fact, he was better at just about everything that mattered—horsemanship, dancing, fighting, siring children (rumor attributed two nedestro children to him already, and he was a year younger than Rafe.) And his laran was much stronger than Rafe’s, whose telepathic abilities were moderate at best, and had only awakened fitfully in the last year or so.

Rafe knew that his guardian hoped that would change—the Elhalyns, a long-lived family, were often late getting their full laran. But Rafe was perfectly content with the limited mental communications ability he had, if only others would be content, too.

Valentin might make a better King. He was tall and handsome and looked magnificent in his dress-suit, and had a natural arrogant grace to all his movements that seemed very royal.

But he’d not been popular, during his time in the Cadets. And in spite of the awkward squads and the demerits handed out for Rafe’s untidy corner of the barracks, his terrible swordsmanship and the fact that any team with him on it was sure to lose at any exercise requiring physical skills and coordination, his comrades had liked him. He was unassuming, in spite of his rank, and had a way of accepting his own deficiencies with a humorous deprecation that made it difficult to get too annoyed with him. He could assume a gentle dignity when formal occasions required it, but much preferred to enjoy any comradeship going.

He had a hard time imagining either himself or his half-brother in the place of the distinguished old soldier who’d been Regent most of his life. But the moment was almost upon them, now. The notion of attending Council made it all so much more real, somehow.

Shavanni frowned, doubtfully. Trenor would certainly benefit from having the bolt removed quickly. Being unfamiliar with the nature of the Lav’runz’i bolts, she had no idea what kind of reaction his body might have to it over the space of the two or three days it might take them to reach Aldaran Castle. When festering might set in, or some other problem, was a troubling question. On the other hand, the instruments he was proposing to poke into Trenor looked like they might well produce as much aggravation to the wound as the bolt itself. Lifting out the bolt by matrix would be both gentler and more effective—they could stimulate the flesh-knitting at the same time. The question was—did she trust herself to do it without Domna Margali?

The Lav’runz’i clearly had healing knowledge that was beyond her, and the healer seemed confident. If the wound was aggravated by the poking, they could repair it at Aldaran, and if the bolt was gone, it might be that much easier. Finally, she nodded. “My thanks, healer. Trenor’s family has been in Aldaran service since time out of mind, and he is a good man. We are in your debt,” she told the man, relying on Karen to translate. She was beginning to understand a few of the strange, gutteral Lav’runz’i words, but she did not yet know enough to say something so important clearly. She turned to Karen’s question.

“Indeed. And I don’t know how you honor your dead, either. The bodies will be frozen, by morning, and we will build a rock cairn over them, to protect them from the kyorebni. We will take their things with us, to return to their families, and they will be honored at the Year-Festival. Since they died in Aldaran’s service, their names will be carven on the Defender’s Rampart, at Aldaran, and their families may honor them there, as well. If we could take their bodies with us, their families would lay them to rest properly, but…” she shook her head. “We must travel quickly, for the wounded, and we have not enough horses for drag-litters.”

“Whatever is proper for the honor of your dead, you may do while the men are building the rock-cairn. If there is anything we can do to help, please ask. We do not forget that you were under Aldaran’s banner when your man was lost.”

(OOC—I’m going to assume the Lavenrunzians have a short Christian ceremony while the Darkovans bury their dead, to keep things moving. If you’d like to RP it out, go ahead and I’ll catch up later.)


The rest of the journey to Aldaran proceeded without incident, although it was slower than they would have liked, due to the wounded. Beltran and Hedren used cloaks to fashion cocoon-like slings that kept the two lowlanders and Vandir immobilized with relative comfort on the backs of the steadiest, strongest horses. The other seriously wounded were secured with pads and extra rope, so that they could relax against their horses’ necks when needed—not too comfortable but in no danger of falling.

Fortunately, on the next day they went through the Raa’nzi Pass, and began to descend to lower altitudes for a while. They could replenish their wood supply, and spend the night at a proper travel shelter. In this part of the Hellers, the mountains ran almost in ridges, with areas of passes and valleys in between, each one at a slightly higher altitude than the last. After the outer ranges, the terrain was almost hospitable, in places, and here and there villages or hamlets perched on mountain meadows made their overlord’s son welcome and replenished their supplies.

Once the trail led them to a meadow that was unbelievably beautiful, with masses of golden flowers just starting to show bloom. It was a mystery to the Lavenrunzians when the Darkovans halted the caravan at the edge of the meadow. An urgent colloquy took place between Beltran and Esteban. The caravan turned, and backed along the trail to take a branch that avoided the meadow. When asked why, Shavanni explained, “Kiriseth, just beginning to bloom. And the weather conditions are right for a Ghost Wind.”

Finally, they topped the last ridge of mountains through the Aldar Pass, and looked over the intervening meadowlands to the Castle itself, perched on the opposite face like a huge eagle in its eyrie. The distances were deceptive, but by any standards, it was huge.

Raised with the aid of skilled leroni in the days when matrix science was at its height, the Castle had never been taken from without. Built halfway into the mountain itself, and jutting outward with an impenetrable curtain rampart that blended into the mountain’s very face to provide hundreds of feet of sheer, outward-angled rock to baffle the invader, its highest towers showed palely gleaming against the dark background of mountains behind. It was difficult to imagine how it could have been built, without matrix-science, or magic. No feat of human engineering that did not include pure kinetic energy transfers of massive power could have raised that structure in the context where it stood.

Below it, in a broad, fertile meadow, lay Caer Donn. Once it had been a city of some size (almost as large as Nevarsin-of-the-Snows,) but it had dwindled considerably over the years, until now it was somewhere between a village and a town, surrounded by wide swathes of pasturage and cultivated land. The remnants of dignity were left to it, with a huge stone mill beside the turbulent river, and several larger houses and inns of substantial size and style. Although small, it was prosperous, a trading crossroads for the region, and here in the meadow the mountain trails leveled and widened into roads.

Their path led around the meadow’s edge, where it joined a steep, upward-sloping road cut from the solid rock of the mountain’s side, passing through an outer bastion, and winding up further, overlooked by more bastions and redoubts cut from the mountain’s living fabric. It was easy to see why Aldarans had ruled here in unbroken line since before memory told. One could understand, perhaps, a little of the arrogance that gave them the conviction that the Lord of the Mountains was greater than any King. From the gate houses and the tallest tower fluttered larger versions of the eagle banner they traveled under.

With relief, Beltran and Esteban turned to the Castle approach road, beginning the final climb.

What on Earth is a ghost wind, and what do flowers have to do with it? Karen had asked during the trip. How far does this region's overlord's domain extend? she tried not to exhaust Shavanni with questions, but she had so many.
Hochswender at one point quietly said, "Captain--I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are we delaying landing on the planet? Why this interminable trip, which a few hours with aviation would have accomplished?"
She glanced round at the encampment; the soft whickering over horses, murmur of conversation, a quiet laugh, footfalls as one of the Darkovan servants went to stir something on the fire.
"Lieutenant, when I was a test pilot--about your age--sometimes you had to do things that the manufacturers protested at. For instance, stalling a plane in midair, diving close to the sea, dangerous reversals, that sort of thing. The kind of thing you'd have to do in combat. This world reminds us of home, but it isn't. It is not just the sun that is strange; it's a blending of things earthly and of things alien. If we're going to survive here, we need to know what it's like."
He nodded. "It's like survival training, Captain?"
Karen smiled. "Exactly so, just like that. If you think that I don't dislike being away from Beowulf so long, think again. But I haven't just come here to command the ship, but to found a colony."
However, Karen was, deep down, concerned; she was glad of Kotzebue's presence, his meticulous notes. He was already learning some of the local dialect, particularly the names for things. His good humor--indeed, his friendship--was a source of comfort.
She also enjoyed the comraderie. On the ship, there were so many people she had to just surround herself with the command and information team. Here, that sense she had had commanding a fighter squadron had returned; she could immediately see the results of her leadership.

When they reached the castle, Doctor Kotzebue best summed up their feelings.
"This is something which, at home, would be one of the ancient wonders. What imagination conceived it, what strength of resolve brought it into being? I almost do not want to know...the journey was worth this moment."
They all felt it alike; they had all feared being dogsbodies to the technocrats, shepherding data and colony builders along. But now they knew they were in the footsteps of those fools and giants that had come before them; the great explorers.
"Lieutenant Hochswender," said Karen, "Get our flag out. Boots and buttons everyone--let's show them the Lavenrunzians have arrived."

It became clear, as the cavalcade approached the Castle, that although there had been peace among Aldaran and its vassals for many years, the Aldaran military force remained alert and effective. Men with well-kept shields, swords, and pikes were on duty at the fort-de-ponte where a stone bridge crossed a chasm carved by the fast-rushing river that debouched into the meadow, at outer bastion gate, and the main castle gate; they were glad to see Esteban and astonished by the visitors.

The fort-de-ponte led to a spacious barbican overlooked by towers set into the outer wall; the outer bastion gave onto a spacious bailey, partly a natural outcropping of the mountain, and partly carved from the mountain walls. Stables and barracks were set into the walls, and at the meadow end the wall was topped by machicolated parapets and a gallery leading to an end bastion. The main gate was set into a curtain perhaps thirty meters high, and overlooked by a corbelled parapet with half-turrets, set into the curtain. The massive blocks constructing the curtain had to be at least two meters on the long side and a meter high. From the parapet the Aldaran banner overhung the gate, which was thrown wide. The cavalcade rode through a tunnel perhaps ten meters in length, overlooked by twin gatehouses set into the walls, and murder-holes indicated another defensive embrasure above.

The middle bailey, by contrast to the stark barbican and outer bailey, was a large grassy meadow, set with stables, houses, storehouses, smithy and other workshops, mostly sturdy stone-and-timber construction. There were almost as many buildings here as in Caer Donn below. Some were clearly unoccupied, but neatly secured or used as storehouses. Set into the mountain-side where they caught the maximum possible sun exposure were vast slanted frameworks filled in with clear and translucent blocks—the greenhouses where snow-melons and other produce provided the Lord of Aldaran with a winter diet not too much different than high summer’s offerings.

Waiting at the great gate into the forebuilding was the Aldaran coridom, Ann’kas Darriell, with a squadron of servants to collect the baggage and take the horses to the stables. When he saw the wounded, Ann’kas snapped out swift orders to one of the men “See to it that Domna Margali knows there are wounded men to be healed, and have rooms prepared in the Idriel Tower.” He surveyed the weary party with an experienced eye. “The Gods bless the hour of your return, Dom Esteban, Damisela Shavanni; and Aldones blesses us with the honor of your presence, guests of Aldaran. Baths are prepared for you. Dom Gabriel has ordered a great feast for this evening, but he wishes to welcome you and receive you privately when you are refreshed.”

Shavanni handed over her horse with relief to the stablehand who claimed it, and went to where the Lav’runz’i were dismounting. “Your things will be taken to your rooms. These men and women,” she pointed to the servants, “will show you there, and you can rest and refresh yourselves until the feast,” she smiled at them all, feeling that she had come to know them on the eventful journey. “Healer Mittelstaedt, if you would like, later, to join Domna Margali and myself when we treat Vandir MacAnn’dra and the others, we would be honored to have you join us. We can send a servant to show you the way.”

“Karen, you and your officers will be in the Keep, where the family apartments are. I must confess I will be so glad to slide into a real bath!” she smiled, as she and Esteban led the way through the big hall, into a forecourt roofed-in with more of the translucent blocks, and through the massive inner door to the Keep.

The Castle, inside, was a warren where a visitor could easily be lost without a servant to guide them. But Shavanni and Esteban showed them to the pleasant, spacious corridors that enclosed the family apartments without difficulty, and indicated their rooms.

Esteban, who had been quizzing Shavanni daily on what she’d learned of the Lav’runz’i tongue, ushered Hochswender, Kotzebue, and Father Stephen into their chambers with a quite passable “Wilkommen sie, Bitte schoen,” and looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. Shavanni grinned proudly. It was quite likely, once he had the chance to try seriously, that Esteban would pick up the language even faster than she. For one thing, he wouldn’t have the near-intuitive laran translating for him, and for another, he had a natural facility with languages. He was fluent in the forge-folk’s dialect and some of the obscure backmountain variations of the mountain dialect. This contributed greatly to his popularity.

Karen was near her, at the end of a corridor, on the other side. At the end, between their two suites, was the women’s bath facilities for this wing of the Castle. She indicated them to Karen, and vanished gratefully into her own chamber, where Merris already waited.

The guest chambers in the family wing were well-appointed, and in Karen’s the beautifully carved furnishings in pale wood reflected light from the translucent block-covered windows. Hangings in soft colors showed Cassilda at her loom, and Camilla being greeted and sheltered by the Lord of Aldaran, each with elaborate flower-and-greenery borders set with copper thread. The bed was piled high with feather mattresses, finely spun and woven sheets, and fur coverlets, and a softly cushioned half-sofa/half-chair invited relaxation in a window embrasure. Presses and chests were already being filled with the things from her baggage by a smiling middle-aged woman in a plaid skirt and embroidered tunic, who gestured to the tray of wine and pastries, and the door that led to the small sanitary cubicle with its water basin and tap, and other effective, surprisingly well-designed fittings, before she left.

The men’s chambers featured darker, more massive furnishings, set with stone inlays in some cases, and the hangings showed parties of Aldaran riders hawking or hunting, riding out in military array, and even a few battle scenes. One very old tapestry in Lieutenant Hochswender’s room showed an aircar dumping clingfire on a castle, with the stones burning, and a group of defenders below rushing to batter them down with long-handled mallets and throw them over a wall.

The men’s bathing facility on that wing was also adjacent to their chambers, but each room had its own sanitary cubicle as well.

Shavanni contented herself with a quick bath for now. She wanted to check on the wounded. Dressing herself (fresh gown, how wonderful after the long journey!) she made her way to the Idriel Tower to find Domna Margali.

The older woman had already re-dressed some of the wounds, and when Shavanni entered, she took time for a quick embrace. “Bredilla! You look so much better. I knew the Arilinn leronis would be able to help. And such guests you’ve brought back with you! Are they really the people of your strange dreams?”

Shavanni nodded. “Oh, they are very strange, Margali—and the strangest part is how much like us they are! But they have some wonderful healing techniques. They took a bolt from Trenor’s shoulder, and poured blood into Narthyl MacAnn’dra, who had a terrible arterial cut. They have a thing that tests blood to see if it will go properly into a person, and be just like the person’s own blood. I saw their healer do this!”

Margali shook her head. “Blessed Evanda! Are they leroni, then?”

“At least one of them… Karen von Hohenloe, their Lady, has enough laran that your kinsman Algar Ridenow was able to activate a rapport between her and I. But I do not think they are leroni. I don’t know what they are, other than from some place beyond the very stars themselves.”

“Algar Ridenow! You saw him? Oh, I haven’t seen him since I was last at Serrais for Midwinter—fifteen years since. He was going into Neskaya, then.”

“He is still there. He had gone to fetch his young brother to go to Nevarsin, to St. Valentine-of-the-Snows, and they were at Storn when we passed through.”

Margali looked wistful. “I wish I had been there. I haven’t heard any family news in a good while.” Somewhat abruptly, she focused on business. “Those two lowlanders you brought back with you—the one is awake, I think.”

“Dom Alekandro Syrtis-Ardais? Poor man. He and his bredu, Rohan Lindir-Aillard, were taken captive by those dreadful bandits, and given raivannin.”

“Hawkfist’s men?”

“There were none left alive to tell us, but we think it so. Certainly Hawkfist was not with them, but he is rumored to have many lieutenants.”

“Well, Dom Ardais is in here. If he is awake, he may be well enough to ask questions. I did a little healing, but only energy-stimulus. It puzzled me, to find no laran traces, when he wore a matrix.”

She went to the door that led to the room where the two lowland Comyn Lords were ensconced, and opened it. Shavanni went in, followed by the leronis. Dom Alekandro was awake.

Raineach, Keeper of Neskaya

"I remember it as though it were yesterday..." Raineach sighed, her golden eyes clouding as her thoughts turned inward. So fine-tuned was her presence in the overworld, it seemed her true element. "It was summer even then when I took to riding, a Verrin hawk named Eraldes upon my gloved hand and as my guardian, a keeper of the Neskaya Tower gates, Hiram.
“I could not take to be cooped within the Towers that day,” she whispered, ran a long fingered hand that the Keeper of Arilinn half expected to bare six digits, through crimson curls flowing over a willowy form. “We rode into the valleys where I thought to set Eraldes loose on some unsuspecting prey, but the gods rode too that day and changed everything.”

Images flowed freely from her mind to Caitlyn's as though to prove the veracity of her words; though any Leronis knew enough to tell truth from lie.
In the ethers of the overworld some of these emotionally tangled thoughts drew a fragile shape and glided as graceful phantoms through the more purposefully wrought chamber, fleeting things lost again to the past in moments.

“Hiram and I took to riding our stallions hard, flying towards the horizon as Eraldes circled overhead and in retrospect it was the hawk that forewarned us,” Raineach said. Head sank into the palms of her hands, red-veiled by falling hair. “It was only a small rise in the landscape. Certainly no more worthy of note than a ripple in a lake, but above, Eraldes shrieked high-pitched as our steeds flew across that impotent furrow and into the thick of mature kireseth blossoms that instantly yielded their pollen to the gently stirring air.” Raineach’s body shuddered. Hands turned to claws grasping at her face as though she sought to dig away all trace of memory and in the illusory chamber, the ghosts of the past gazed horrified at one another; Raineach and Hiram.

Elderly Hiram had one hand flung up in this frozen tableau, features half concealed; desperate to ward off the golden air that exploded round them but as the scene shifted forward it proved to avail him not.
His stallion crumpled beneath him, rolled…
And even in the shocking silence of Raineach’s reflected chamber, it was as if the sound of bones breaking cracked loudly through the ether. Both women flinched and Raineach moaned.

“Poor Hiram,” she said, voice strained. “Would that it had been me that death came for in that moment.
“But kindness is not the virtue of fate, is it Caitlyn?”
The Keeper looked up, eyes suffused with a decades anguish and shook her head as the phantom Hiram faded as wisps of smoke.

“I never learned why Melor was there,” Caitlyn noticed that the more Raineach’s story unfolded the more worn the Keeper appeared. Youth still enfolded her form, but the flesh seemed taunt and pale. ”He rushing in to danger as the gods ordained, carried there by the instrument of my terror.” she clenched hands to fists now. “I’ve recreated that day so many times in my mind and in each I’ve never screamed.” She looked up at Caitlyn as though the Leronis could grant her wish. “Only in that moment and on that day, I did and fate was sealed there and then.”

Phantom Melor and phantom Raineach struggled against the kireseth. Now both thrown from their mounts they ran from the gold-tainted air but even dim as their forms were, kireseth pollen was glimpsed glistening of their skins and clothes.
As the hallucinogen clouded their minds, loosened their resolve the phantoms mercifully faded; preserved the final shame from Caitlyn’s eyes.

“I took leave of my tower that very day,” so weak now was the voice of Raineach. All strength lost to her as the past sapped away her will for a second time. “I was too shamed to speak of why and let it be known only that I was on the cusp of instability, that overwork and now Hiram’s horrific death had taken their toll on me.
But the gods were not finished with me and in my seclusion I found that the tryst with Melor had born bitter fruit and I sent away every servant bar one, an ancient woman sworn to the Lanarts and able to keep secrets well.”
Raineach smiled but acerbity painted her features, her golden eyes.

“Even then the gods conspired to veil my secret and she died not long after Lirielle was born,” Raineach continued. It seemed that quickened, the story would not go untold. She’d kept this secret so long and yet it flowed out of her without prodding as though the tenerésteis longed to be rid of the burden. “In secret then, though winter still held the domains fast, I travelled to Armida.
Yet even then death was not seeking me as earnestly as I sought it. Summoning the ungifted Melor from his home proved simple, though it is not often spoken of there is Alton blood within my lineage and fate denied the Lord Alton what it gave to me.”

There was a growing sense of horror in the chamber; phantom scenes yet unfolding as the white robed Raineach-of-the-past waited invisible among the snows for the approaching figure to reach her.

“So I forced rapport on Melor,” her voice broke as she revealed yet more shame. In the ghostly tableau Melor turned pale, mouth gaping wide as he sank to his knees before the white lady that assailed him. “Not for the first time, I stole away memories from Melor and sealed for my daughter and her father a better fate than my own.” Raineach avoided Caitlyn’s eyes as realisation dawned in Arilinn’s Keeper; the woman had begun to safeguard her secret even on the very day the gods had taken away her honour. I had expected death, but I did not wish it on Melor and then later I could not wish it on my unborn child.
Yet now, I’d seen them protected though it fouled me once again. To overshadow a mind,” Raineach writhed on her chair, wrung her pale hands, “destroyed the last of me and I rode back to Neskaya, took up the red robes and silently cried out to the gods for an end.
But yet again I was denied…

Raineach rose from her illusory seat, stepped across the stone floors as though they were solid as any worldly tower and stood, eyes harried and hard; locked with Caitlyn’s.
“Each day since has been a quiet prayer, an unvoiced hope that my flesh will rend in the workings of the relays and a pyre flash me through to the bone so that only ash remains.
Yet Tenerésteis that is a lie!” Layers flowed across Raineach’s skin, years of pain rolled away and the strength and resolve of the comynara seemed restored. “Some malign hand cursed we Keepers and what should not have been a crime now is and I stand before you an oath-breaker.
This was my secret alone Caitlyn and now it belongs also to you. I’ve had the Alton donas to conceal behind the strength of my own mind what miseries fate pressed upon me and not another soul has guessed what you know.”

So what now Caitlyn, what now?



Alekandro Ardais, Captain of the Guard

Without that innate sense that had threaded through every moment an awareness of others, Alekandro felt only half-alive.
Though the chamber lay veiled in silence, it had no power over him and only the stillness of mind troubled the Captain of the Guard.
He longed to reach for Rohan, find comfort in contact with his bredu even though the man most likely still lingered in the sleep of the sick and weak.
Live, live. Alekandro glanced over at the covered form of his companion, but did not attempt to call out to him.
The silence within and without had stilled his tongue and in his heart he knew that Rohan could not reply yet.

He started as the door opened, sounding out against the silence and two women hesitantly entered.
“S'dia shaya, domni” he said, flinched at the pain that pinched at the nerves in his neck. Would it plague him the rest of his life? “I thank you for my life and that of my bredu. We are indebted.” His eyes shifted, fixed on the younger woman; the one who’d tended him before in the snow-clad mountains. “Did the domna pass word to Lord Alton?” The raiders have set the Guards on edge, who knows what action will be taken if word does not reach Armida in time?

Only the most powerful effort at control enabled Caitlyn to maintain the level of equanimity that could barrier her from the full horror of realization. So Raineach had broken, not only her Keeper’s Oath, but the oath required of every Comyn telepath upon the receipt of their matrix stone---?

To force no mind unwilling…

What had looked like a substantial enough skein of problems now loomed like a very mountain, and by the nature of Raineach’s presence in the overworld, she could tell that the woman was close, very close, to breaking. Fleetingly, she felt an impulse to simply do the easy thing, stand before the Comyn council and give forth her knowledge, but… the evil resulting would be too great, and would undo all that generations of Hasturs had tried to accomplish for Darkover.

A Keeper is responsible only to her own conscience, she reminded herself. And look where that had gotten Raineach. And the Gods knew how many innocent people who would suffer because for whatever Zandru-be-damned reason the woman had not seen fit to lay down her Oath and retire those many years ago. Well, she’d chosen not to answer that question, and by now it was hardly essential.

The honor of a Keeper was at stake—and in one Keeper, all Keepers. The honor of the Towers was at stake. The very future of all she and others had worked for, so slowly, so carefully, for so long, was at stake. The peace of the Domains was at stake. And all rested on what the conscience of Caitlyn-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn, Keeper of Arilinn, chose to do now. A wrong choice, and she would compound the damage, more profoundly still, and plunge Darkover back into the long spiral of chaos and decline. The right choice, and she herself would have to live with a terrible burden. And the Elhalyn were proverbially long-lived.

In the pause between a breath and a breath, the Elhalyn gift welled up, and futures opened before her:

Raineach’s body impaled, Lirielle contorted in agony, weeping and weeping, the Tower Circle of Neskaya driven forth… outcast…

Mobs pillaging Arilinn Tower, impaling the Keepers (Keepers?) and screaming betrayal, defilement… Towers torn into opposing camps, escalating into laran warfare for ‘liberation’ or ‘the suppression of heresy’… The feuds spreading among the families of the Comyn… sister against father, brother against brother, all of the fragile telepathic lines extinguished by bloodshed within a few generations…

Diverging lines of possibility: Along one line Melor’s bloody, dismembered body, and Jeran standing in the Comyn Council chamber, vowing blood-feud and striking down Marcus with the Alton laran… The massed armies of Hastur, Elhalyn, Ridenow, Aillard (where were the Ardais?) burning Armida… Untilled fields, burning cots and villages… And in the midst of it all, strange people with terrible weapons, unleashing a yet more horrible kind of warfare across the Domains…

A much older Lirielle’s face, streaming with tears, riding forth from Arilinn, never to return, and Caitlyn’s own heart breaking with the years looming empty, and dry… Her own Tower Circle broken and dispersed, strangers, new faces, coming and going… Lines of people, commoners, in the Stranger’s Room outside the Veil, discussing unimaginable things with faces she would know someday… New buildings being raised around the Tower… A weariness growing, growing, and always the temptation to turn bitter, to hate the necessity that kept her from sharing the wonders and changes… Her own garden closing about her like a prison…

In a big, ugly city of the space-farers, a strange face above stranger clothing, declaring something against all Comyn, such a strange word, “pogrom”… and Comyn being rounded up, unconscious, terrible things being done to them, mind-raped, empty shells stumbling blindly forth…

Along another line, the tragic death of Raineach with Melor Alton her chief executioner, implacable avenger of the Comyn Oath as well as the Keeper’s Oath… the grieving Lirielle clinging to the Towers as her only refuge from a world where such horrors could be perpetrated in the name of justice… becoming old, and bitter, and in her turn accusing a young Keeper, the last Keeper of Arilinn… the Towers going dark, and cold…

The strangers transforming Darkover into a place where men served machines, and sought safety from responsibility in a law that prescribed their every choice… With Darkovans as unregarded labor, fit only for menial tasks, unskilled, unvalued…

A world where the strangers kept themselves apart, and Comyn tried desperately to sustain some kind of rule over the Domains even without the Towers, transforming themselves into tyrants and oppressors, and the people of Darkover turning to the prospering strangers to save them…

Watching a Circle of telepaths working together, and knowing they are raising a new Tower… a new Tower!… and a slender, fair-haired young man in the center, a stranger—from beyond the stars?? holding the energon flows easily and strongly…

But which choices led to which futures? So many terrible things… so many terrible choices. And only the conscience of a Keeper for guidance.

In the overworld, her figure wavered for a moment, as her control faltered and the responsibility overwhelmed her, but it quickly steadied, and she remained, within that same breath-space, regarding Raineach calmly, impassively.

“Now, Raineach, you choose. Oath-breaking and betrayal cannot be ignored. You must submit yourself to judgment, and I give you a choice of judges: There is much to sort through, here. I will take such counsel as seems good to me, and I am going to Thendara to speak to Lord Alton. When I return, I will come to you again. Be here, Raineach, and be ready then to tell me—will you go to the Council for judgment, or will you accept my judgment? Be here, Raineach, or on the word of a Hastur, I, Caitlyn-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn, will hunt you through Darkover, in the world or the overworld, and see you are brought to justice, one way or another.”

Her overworld avatar stood, and began to move away, then paused, and turned, and said, drily, “And continue to keep your own counsel, until then. You’ve managed it this long; I daresay you can do so for a few tendays more.” Her eyes met Raineach’s steadily, and—strangely—sympathetically. Finally, she turned, and the walls of Raineach’s chamber dissolved to show her ‘walking’ figure vanishing swiftly in the direction of the light that was Arilinn.



A deep breath. The walls of her own familiar study around her. Another deep breath, and she found she was trembling. What had she done; what had she assumed? Merciful Avarra, sustain me, she thought.

Now, she must rest, however briefly, and then see Jeran to request his escort to Thendara. She had not been to Thendara since… she tried to remember. Oh, yes. The wedding of her cousin, Mirella. Ten years since? Eleven? That had been just two years after the funeral procession of the old King from Thendara to Hali.

With a sigh, she went into the bath that her kyrri had drawn ready for her, then dressed in a fresh gown, and went down to her private garden. In the slanting afternoon sunlight she sat on a stone seat, under an arbor she’d planted with flowering vines, and let the peace wash over her, inhaling the fresh scent of earth and flowers. When the changing angle of the light told her it was almost supper time, she rose, and went back into the Tower. First Jeran. Then the more difficult task—meeting with her Circle.

Karen von Hohenloe met with Shavanni in her room; she was wearing her standard winter uniform, gold buttons recently polished, insignia bright, and she was clearly in a businesslike mood.
"Shavanni, I fully intend to thank our hosts for their hospitality, I am most grateful. But..." she sighed. "My Admiral is growing impatient. For several days we have been travelling, and even with the marvels of...laran...I have not heard the faintest word of curiousity from anyone but yourself regarding our presence here. You must understand, it is of the utmost importance that I speak with people who have the power to make treaties."
She did not know how to explain it in words, but she tried to convey her feeling at least, and found that she longed to beyond mere ideas; it was as if something she couldn't grasp depended on it. The Admiral had to know that there was a civilization here that must be taken into consideration, that mutual benefit was to be had if only wisdom prevailed...

Shavanni nodded reassuringly to Dom Alekandro. Esteban had told the Coridom to dispatch a fast messenger to Alton; she had seen the man riding away as they entered the Castle. "A messenger has been sent to Alton, vai Dom."

She smiled, trying to remember not to meet his eyes. "I am Shavanni Storn, promised wife of Dom Esteban, heir to Aldaran. This is our leronis, Margali Lindir-Delleray. We will do what we can to heal your bredu, and to make you more comfortable, by your leave."

They went to Rohan’s bedside. Margali took out her matrix, and held it in her right hand, while she stretched her left hand over Rohan’s body, hovering an inch or two from the surface. The silence stretched, while she noted his concussion, the effects of the raivannin, the festering wound in his side. Finally she nodded. “You did well to slow his metabolism, Shavanni. The infection is very bad, but perhaps we can put it right.”

She called one of the servants for hot water and other things.

“First, let us see what we can do to contain and remove the infection.” She nodded to Shavanni, and the girl took out her matrix and held it, looking into it briefly, nodding slowly as she entered rapport with the leronis.

Carefully, they sought out the festering areas, finding the sources of the infection and rendering them inert, working outward to reverse the inflammation and fever spreading slowly, inhibiting the flow of clean blood. They relaxed the engorged flesh around the major blood vessels, and then Margali carefully probed down further, inward, finding the path of the wound and the damage it had done. Drawing on the combined laran strength of her rapport with Shavanni, and at the same time showing her what she was doing, she stimulated the healing enzymes that knitted the damaged internal flesh together, rendering the damaged organs whole again.

With a little gasp, she let the rapport drop. The surface of the wound was bleeding again, much pus had been expelled, and a little dead tissue. Carefully, they cleaned it, and stitched the wound, packing it with karalla to prevent re-infection.

“You remember, what I taught you about concussion?” Margali asked Shavanni. The girl nodded. “Go ahead.” The leronis gestured to Rohan.

Taking a deep breath, glancing uncertainly at Margali, Shavanni asked, “Just me? Alone?”

“I’ll monitor you. You’ll be fine. Remember how well you did when Derni fell down the kitchen steps.”

Shavanni nodded, and focused her awareness on Rohan. Concussion was trauma to the brain—swelling, too much fluid accumulating at the injury site, pressure. Carefully, she soothed the inflammation, smoothing the fluid into a more even distribution, releasing the pressure. She could feel Margali’s presence in light rapport. “Shall I release his metabolism from the inhibition?” she asked.

“Yes, he can heal properly now.”

With a deep sigh, Rohan slipped from the semi-conscious stasis into a natural sleep.

Margali smiled at her. “Well done. You have a deft touch.”

Shavanni shook her head. “It still scares me. So much could go wrong.”

“It is a grave responsibility. It does no harm to appreciate that. Still, your confidence will grow.”

The two women relaxed for a few minutes, left the room to have some pastries and fruit juices to recruit their energy. When they returned, they went to Alekandro’s pallet.

“A very bad concussion. With some nerve damage, I think,” Shavanni told Margali. The leronis nodded, and again monitored her patient.

“Yes. Lingering trauma at the injury site, cartilage distorted… pressure on the nerve bundles. We can fix that.”

Again, the two women dropped into rapport, and released the physical hold on the nerve-channels, smoothing out the accumulated fluid. “Not much we can do about the raivannin blocks, I’m afraid. Still, they are being absorbed now, and with the abatement of the swelling and trauma, the absorption rate will speed up. A day or two, perhaps, if they don’t try to use laran,” Margali noted.

A more normal color was already returning to Alekandro’s face. “He will be hungry when he wakes,” Shavanni observed.

“I will order some food… nut-rolls, broth, a little bread, and some juice.”

Shavanni looked out the window at the angle of the sun. “Lord Aldaran will be ready to receive the Lav’runz’i soon,” she said. “I should go and ensure that they are ready.”

**********


Shavanni was astonished. "But Karen, we are wildly curious about you--everything about you! All of us..."

She tried to think how to convey the intricacies of the situation, in which etiquette mixed with politics—two pitfall-laden areas she intuited Karen could well understand, if they were explained clearly.

"It is partly that you are guests. We have... traditions... about the treatment of guests. And, while it was Esteban's privilege, as heir to Aldaran, to name you guests, you are not his guests, but Dom Gabriel's—Lord Aldaran. For anyone but Dom Gabriel to ask you questions about your intentions or—well, important things—would be a terrible breach of manners. A rudeness, both to you and to Lord Aldaran."

"Now that you are here, however, and Lord Aldaran will be receiving you. And I am certain that he will want to know a great deal about your people and why you came here, and what you plan to do here, and-- well, everything!”

“I am Lord Aldaran’s vassal. And certainly, he will want me to translate, so that you can talk freely.” She sighed a little, in frustration. “I can advise you somewhat—as a friend—but…” She bit her lip.

“Listen, I think it will serve Aldaran well if I do tell you some things, maybe answer some questions. As to who can make treaties—”

“You have heard me speak a little of this. Aldaran is Lord here in the mountains—all of the Hellers, from the Canderkor Ranges north of the Dry-Towns, to the Tule Passes, beyond Nevarsin, are under his suzerainty, except Nevarsin itself and the monastery of St. Valentine-of-the-Snows. It is a great Domain—the greatest, perhaps, for sheer size, although not much populated. His rule here is absolute, he answers to no one and can make any treaties he feels are desirable.”

“But Dom Gabriel’s rule does not run much further south than Scaravel, in the edges of the Kilghard Hills. From there, all lands are under the rule of the Hali’imyn, the Hastur-Lords of the hills and the plains. There are six great Domains there, each with its own Lord. But they are not absolute—they answer to the Comyn Council and the King, when there is a King. I am not precisely sure how it is ordered right now, but I suspect Dom Gabriel knows a good deal about it. I think they have a Regent.”

“Anyway, I am not entirely sure how they would regard the question of who could make treaties with your folk, because I don’t know much about how the Lords of the Domains relate to the Council and the King, and so on.”

“But there are also places where no Comyn writ runs—the Dry Towns, for example. They are a fierce, barbaric people and suspicious of strangers. I think each of their bands has a leader, and those leaders are laws unto themselves. I do not know how you would make treaties with them. And the forests of the Trailmen. There are no formal treaties I know of, but an ages-long agreement that men will not go there uninvited. Few have seen their dwellings in the trees, and I do not think they would wish to make treaties at all. The catmen hate humans, although they will sometimes ally with them for raiding or brigandage. Still, we do not encroach upon them, and they generally stay within their own caves and hills.”

Shavanni sighed. “I do not know if this helps, Karen. If your—your ‘Admiral’?—needs to learn of these things, perhaps he should visit Lord Aldaran, too.”

She took a deep breath, wondering if what she was about to say was right—she knew it was risky. “There are not many people in the Hellers, Karen. You saw, as we passed along the trails, valleys and high plateaus where no one lives. Perhaps Lord Aldaran would be willing to let some of your people take lands here.”

“If any of your people are willing to take him as suzerain, there are even estates that have lain abandoned for a generation or more, like High Crags. But even if you cannot take him for suzerain, it is possible he might grant some group of your people a charter, to govern themselves, as at Nevarsin.”

She smiled, suddenly. “I would count our House blessed to have you for a neighbor.”

They heard a discreet scratch on the door. “Come, I think Dom Gabriel is ready.”


Esteban and the other officers were just arriving as they approached the small hall that served Lord Aldaran for a reception-chamber.

Gabriel, Lord of Aldaran, was a smallish man, with iron-gray hair and a neatly-trimmed beard that mingled gray with darker shades. He might have been written off as nondescript, if you could have ignored the razor-sharp, humorous, brilliant eyes of an odd shade of light hazel, with a darker ring around irises. And although on the small side, his movements had a resilient economy that indicated superb physical condition for a man whose face was scored with the tracks of years.

He sat in a beautifully-carved, high-backed chair inlaid with colored woods. The coridom, Ann’kas Darriell, was with him, and a slender young man sat at a table by the window, with writing materials spread upon it. He rose as his guests approached, as did the other men in the room.

Shavanni dipped respectfully in a curtsey, and Esteban bowed slightly. “Father, these are the Lav’runz’i.”

He and Shavanni stood aside, and he indicated each Lavenrunzian as he introduced Karen and her officers. Then he turned to them, and gestured. “Dom Gabriel, Aldaran of Aldaran, Lord of the Mountains.”

The Lord of Aldaran had been surveying them closely during the introductions, a gaze almost uncomfortably penetrating, but not hostile. With a nod to his son, he greeted them formally, gesturing to Shavanni to interpret.

“Be welcome, guests of Aldaran, to Castle Aldaran and the domain of the Lord of the Mountains. In a fortunate hour have the Gods blessed us with your presence.”

Raineach, Keeper of Neskaya

Raineach shook her head sadly as she watched the Keeper of Arilinn pass through the walls of her thought-fashioned chamber. I see a Keeper of an age pregnant with darkness, that is all Caitlyn-Mellara Hastur y Elhalyn. Did I expect more?
Drawing up the illusory walls of her chamber once more, Raineach settled back into her chair. You've the narrowed vision of the Tenerésteis of the present. Yet can I blame you for that? The gods themselves were needed to open my eyes.

She felt again the relief that had flooded her at Caitlyn's words, the unveiling of her deep secret; but creeping terror now too. Did the gods think all was prepared? Panic seized her and briefly she was impotent with the overwhelming of her mind and body by an emotion so extreme, she had only known it's equivalent once before.
Then as though Evanda herself laid a finger against Raineach's brow, the panic subsided.

There were twelve windows in her overworld chamber and now the Keeper of Neskaya turned to one through which nothing was revealed but mist-silvered plains. Her golden eyes narrowed, delicate crimson eyebrows now like vivid slashes above her potent gaze.
But little effort was required to bring Arilinn looming close, visible through the window frame; it weighted heavily on her mind. Lirielle my daughter, not for you the harsh penalties of the Teneréstei, I'll never allow that another take up that evil oath.

Shadows coalesced round the window frame; coal-wings wide and textured like the night sky discerned first then a sharp blackened beak and eyes like brilliant beads, a sending. An art long lost to the leroni but something that Raineach had discovered in her long quest for answers.
More than a decade Caitlyn. She almost laughed, satisfied her amusement with a smile; delicate curve of her lips quickly gone as her intent banished all other thoughts.

The sending opened wings to the ether of the overworld, glanced back at its mistress revealed a sliver of intelligence before leaping into air towards Arilinn in the shape of a large crow.
Only Raineach would know it in true form, to others it would be glimpsed as a shadow from the corner of the eye and never seen.

Round the chamber other windows revealed the remaining towers of Darkover; Dalereuth against the frigid waters of the salty seas, Tramontana that ever seemed isolated and the tower to which Raineach now turned her attention, Comyn Tower towering above the city of Thendara.

What would Caitlyn say if she knew that the Keeper of Neskaya had been undermining trainee Keepers for the past decade? That was knowledge that could not be learned and would never be revealed by Raineach herself.
Her golden eyes blazed suddenly and the sending she'd constructed to watch over the tower in Thendara flung wide its shadowed wings, a dark shape detaching itself from the mirage-stone.
Gliding through the window, unglassed as were all the windows in this chamber, it landed on the narrow armrest of Raineach's chair and began to whisper to her.

She smiled at the knowledge it imparted to her.
Knew that because of her own activities, unseen and unknown, that there was now no Keeper to replace Raineach.
The tower of Neskaya would dim, possibly its light would soon go out.
But that is not my aim, she mused as the sending's whispers lapsed into a silence. And I cannot trust Caitlyn to undo the wrong begun centuries ago.
The Keeper of Arilinn's questions had revealed more than Raineach’s answers and it was clear that the leronis lacked the foresight to become aware of this.
Once Neskaya goes dark, it will be followed by another tower and then another… Will Comyn Council tremble at such news? Certainly! Raineach smiled. But I thought to undertake this task for the future Keepers, not my own daughter. She shook her head, though it now seemed only fitting that the gods should instruct her so.
After all, Raineach's education had begun when Lirielle had first been planted in her womb.

Yet, the Keeper of Neskaya felt the edges of her panic returning; there was still one final piece she required.
All this would not press on Comyn Council the overwhelming imperative to usher in change and usher it now! How incomplete my plans though a decade has been worn away in the preparation. She sighed, pressed fingers to her youthful brow and massaged the temples though it bore out no effect.
It was ingrained habit and came to her even here, where the physical bore no relation to anything of and in the overworld.

The gods would not move me now, were there not everything I needed assembled round Darkover in this moment. Stirring her mind, she recalled that Algar Ridenow would even now be returning from Aldaran and perhaps with him carried news from the seventh domain. News that the gods had seen fit to leave for her in his hands.
She reached out to her sending-crow, long slender fingers pale against the shadowed feathers.

"Return and watch and listen." She commanded it, found its intelligent gaze upon her; head cocked to the left. Indeed whisper ever in the dreams of those who seek the Keeper's path, unremembered though your words shall be.

It had proven so simple to dissuade trainees, the duties were too harsh and their young minds willing to rebel. No trace of her subtle interference would be found no matter how deep their minds were examined.
The black crow ruffled it's immaterial feathers and leapt suddenly into the air, diving through the Comyn Tower window and returning to its assigned tasks.

Raineach was suddenly restored to the world, her flesh somewhat chilled by her experiences in the overworld.
Time had almost run its course and she would need to enter the relays soon.
But perhaps there was time enough for her final task.

Settling her mind, Raineach reached out for Algar Ridenow and found him not now far from Nevarsin; settled for the evening in some sheltered village long abandoned but for those journeying between towns.

"Algar, Algar." she touched on his mind, still spry for all the age that had gathered slowly on the youth she'd known. Her own cheiri blood still warded off signs of ageing within herself and Raineach knew that though the members of her circle had known her many years, her youthful features still sometimes surprised them.
"Algar Ridenow, what news have you from Aldaran?"

And she waited, knowing that he would not find her questions strange. The curiosity of Raineach Lanart was renowned in Neskaya Tower.



Valdrin-Kazel Ardais, Lord Ardais

Valdrin strode the corridors of Comyn castle literally surrounded by a shimmer of rage; unleashing his anger on any servant that was unlucky enough to stumble across his path.
His children had wisely vacated the Ardais Suite long before Valdrin had returned from the Cortes where deliberation continued on the issue of the current Lord Ardais' legitimacy.
Their decision was unlikely to be forthcoming soon, in fact it was deemed that the unravelling of the status of the Ardais claim could take many years yet to settle.
But Valdrin was eager to put an end to the lifted brows and generous smiles of the Comyn, their presumed sniggering behind his back was not something the Lord Ardais was prepared to tolerate.

It seemed to him outrageous that any shadow of doubt should be cast across his families claim to Ardais Castle and Domain by some obscure, upstart whose identity the Cortes had wisely seen fit to withhold.

"By Aldones, this smacks of conspiracy," the Lord Ardais snarled as he passed down a carpeted passageway. Ignoring the delicate patterns woven in greens and brilliant blues, for they clashed with his current mood, Valdrin gripped the pommel of his blade desperate for a rival of flesh and blood.
Knowing too that this was unlikely, that his anger would find no relief and that once again Valdrin-Kazel Ardais would need to slam all that seething turmoil down firmly under mental shields.
Though the Star Chamber was warded against telepathy, he still needed a clear mind.


[OOC: This is my way of preparing the ground for any future 'handover' of Ardais Domain. At that time, the new player will create their own Ardais characters while Valdrin and his children will be given some small Ardais holding for their own to become lesser Comyn. The deliberation of the Cortes is unlikely to be mentioned again, but it does make things 'interesting' for the Ardais. And yes, I'm possessive when it comes to my characters and won't be handing 'em over to others - although I can't imagine why any player would want to take on someone else's creations when they must have loads of their own.
Ramble over. :) ]

Karen met his eyes carefully, this lord of the mountains. He had to be shrewd, a man used to power and the difficulties and joys of it...but she had met fierce eyes before. She wondered how Admiral Schiller would see him.
Clicking her heels together and bowing, she said, "My Lord, I am Countess Karen von Hohenloe, Captain of the Beowulf, an Imperial Space Vessel. I am representing Admiral von Schiller, who has been sent to explore and colonize the worlds around the Red Sun that we call Cottman's Star.
First of all: we are most grateful for your wonderful hospitality. It will surely be most admired, and your fame great among our people because of it. If there is anything your people ever need from us in return, I hope we will be able to provide it.
Let me emphasize, Lord Aldaran, that war is not our intention: we are hoping to settle lands that are unused. We would like to establish friendship with nations here, and make the areas we settle our home."

Shavanni weighed the merits of amplifying or explaining Karen’s words, and decided against it. Dom Gabriel had doubtless already heard an earful from Esteban and Beltran; and while he was far too shrewd to disdain information or advice because of its source, it would be best to maintain a more formal protocol in the presence of the Lav’runz’i, even if this was a more or less informal audience.

So she contented herself with translating Karen’s words as precisely as she could.

Dom Gabriel listened intently, watching Countess von Hohenloe as she spoke and Shavanni translated. (Shavanni could not find a Darkovan word for “Countess,” other than “Domna,” and she wanted to be as precise as possible, so she left it in the Lav’runz’i language.) His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly at the words “war is not our intention,” but he nodded thoughtfully, and gestured for the young man at the table to set chairs for the visitors, as he himself sat.

“Please, be comfortable, Domna.”

He waited for the Lavenrunzians to seat themselves. He was a little surprised at the abruptness with which the leader had broached her business. But perhaps that was their custom.

He had no doubt that von Hohenloe’s words had been considered with care—what he had already learned of her from Beltran and (to a lesser extent) from Esteban indicated that she was an intelligent and levelheaded leader of her people. And the words left no ambiguity about the Lav’runz’i intent. They were not asking to colonize. They were planning to colonize.

He was aware of Esteban stiffening—clearly he had not suspected this. On the other hand, Shavanni showed no surprise or reaction. Was that because of her determination to remain merely a mouthpiece for transmitting their words, or had she already discussed this or divined their purpose, somehow? If so, it showed the finely-calculated judgment he had begun to appreciate in his future daughter-in-law. He spared a quick, minatory glance at Esteban.

He knew his son well, and knew how he would regard such words. Arrogant presumption, to dance up to the Lord of the Mountains, and say, “We’re here for your ‘unused’ land, thank you.” He was probably already revising, unfavorably, his estimation of the visitors, perhaps even regretting extending guest status to them. It would mean a session of explanations, certainly. Esteban lacked mature judgment, could not appreciate subtleties. Hopefully he would grow beyond that.

Beltran had indicated that the Lav’runz’i weapons violated the Compact, and they showed no hesitation in using them against opponents armed far more lightly. But then, they were not Comyn, or even Darkovan, and could not understand Darkovan codes of honor, or the reasons for them.

And von Hohenloe had carefully left some ambiguity about methods, even if she had been unequivocal about goals. This would require more in-depth consideration; but first it would be just as well to see this “Admiral Schiller,” perhaps.

“Domna, we appreciate your candor—and the arduous journey to visit Aldaran. Your presence honors us, and we do not forget the death of your man, Kemmerich, under the Aldaran banner. If there is anything we can do to honor him, please name it.”

His head tilted, slightly. “In truth, it is hard to imagine—people like ourselves, humans, coming to Darkover from beyond the stars. To have lived to see such times is a great thing. We certainly share your concern that relations between our peoples should be friendly.”

“As to ‘unused’ lands… why, that is a matter for discussion. There may be ways to provide your people with homes. It is certain that the lands of Darkover can sustain many more humans than live in most habitable areas—but as far as I am aware, there are no habitable lands that lie unclaimed by some human or non-human Lord.”

He smiled. “Still, your people must be very weary indeed, after their long journey. Doubtless you are impatient to find homes. I would be happy to meet Admiral Schiller, and discuss your expectations, and what your people require. Perhaps we can accommodate some in the Hellers.”

Without removing his gaze from the Lav’runz’i, but maintaining a keen awareness of Esteban’s comprehension, and reaction, he said deliberately, “You bring a great wealth of knowledge from beyond the stars. We would be fools, to turn away from the opportunity to share such knowledge. Knowledge can sometimes have a value far beyond metal, or lands, or even suzerainty.”

Jeran, Alton Heir

Jeran entered the bathing room, sleep still numbing his mind.
Caitlyn's request had taken him completely by surprise and he wondered what great events had come to pass that the Keeper of Arilinn should decide with such haste to make for Thendara.

Disrobing, he sank into the hot water and sighed. He'd lost even the small pleasures when Ysabet and Dartan were taken from him, yet even as this memory overshadowed his mind; brought the haze of tears to his eyes, he remained aware of his physical contentment.

Caitlyn had promised she would not keep him waiting long. He was eager to set out; this delay had stretched the journey already.
It would be another two days before the city was reached and Jeran was beginning to suspect that Lord Alton would be cursing the misfortune that had kept him from Comyn Council this year.

"A time of unimaginable change," he sighed to himself laying back and letting the waters flow over him. Instead of dismissing his drowsiness, the heat only anchored him in this hypnogogic level.
Eyelids dropped and for a while he simply drifted, between sleep and wake.

The edges of reality frayed round him, it seemed the onset of a dream and in his relaxed condition Jeran did nothing to disturb its evolution.
A shape took form, drifting above as though some tapestry had been unfurled across the chamber ceiling; became the recognisable contours of a woman gazing down at him.
Her eyes brilliant blues, sharp edged with a circumference so dark it dipped into black.

Electric blue, ringed with kohl.

It seemed another voice whispering through his mind, the half-recognised sensation of rapport. But so strange it could only be assigned to the realm of dreams and the words themselves meant so little to Jeran that they might have been words spun by a delirious mind.
Skin more golden than true-toned, hair like the darkest shadows sweeping out from the bloody sun at midday; she seemed unlike any woman he'd ever seen. Her eyes fixed upon him, glittered with stars that seemed brighter than any fixed in the Darkovan firmament.

Nothing between the stars and I.

Again it seemed her thoughts, this alien woman with the exotic taste to her rapport, to her mind. Seeping into his lulled consciousness was an awareness that this in truth was no dream. Had his pain drowned his awareness of her before? Her thoughts and gaze had a touch of familiarity, it seemed certain that she at least knew him in some way.

Yes. Raw wounds begin to heal. I knew that they would. Her thoughts, he could run mental fingers through them and feel the thrum of his touch rush through the medium of their rapport towards her. Iolanthe.

"Io'lanth'e," he whispered the name aloud. Eyes stilled closed as the drifting woman descending, till her body lay above his; barely a breath's space apart.
Their eyes locked, a deepening of the rapport building instinctively as she raised a hand and hesitant, let it hover above his brow.

Jeren her lips shaped his name, her thoughts spoke it within his mind and then someone was knocking loudly against the bathroom door and Jeran started; the rapport shattered in an instant.
Water sloshed against the rim of the bath, splashed loudly to the floor and as a dreamer shaken from sleep, Jeran struggled to focus on the reality that had suddenly intruded on him.
Flushed as he recalled the woman drifting above his naked form before finding his voice.

"Yes?"

"Sorry Jeran, I didn't mean to startle you." Lirielle's muffled voice. "I could feel you slipping into sleep and one should never confuse bed and bath." There was a sudden ring of laughter and Jeran joined his little sister; rich and deep against Lirielle's chime notes.
She'd not laughed so freely since their journey to Arilinn tower had begun.
"When you're done, we can make our farewells. It will be long before we meet again Jeran."
He heard her move away, the lightness of her step. Burdens had been lifted from both of them it seemed and yet, the dream…

"Io," he said and could almost feel her again. "Caitlyn what is it you take to Council in person rather than through the relays?" When last did the Keeper of Arilinn attend Council?
Sighing, knowing that only time would unveil some of the answers he felt building inside and that others would remain forever in the shadows, he got out of the bath.


Iolanthe, Botanist

She blinked, hands still clenched into fists and was thankful that the hydroponics chamber was so vast and her experience had passed unseen.
Her flesh still rippled, goose bumps surfacing everywhere as though the man she'd glimpsed had run hands delicately across her skin.

So we meet, Dom Alton. Foreign words came easily to her now. Were she to disappear into the Domains right now, Iolanthe Pfrommer would have no difficulty making herself understood by any Darkovan.
Now if only this delaying of our crossing the gap between Darkover and Beowulf would end.
Those destined to leave for the planet first had been returned to active duty. Rumours and restlessness passed to easily between those who had nothing to keep them busy. Iolanthe had not seen Anna since their last conversation, though often her thoughts turned to her friend.
Neodie however had made an unexpected appearance within Hydroponics and had sniffed when Iolanthe had murmured that Captain von Hohenloe had gone the wrong way.

"She's only meeting with a single man whose influence is severely limited on the world below Neodie. Those mountains within which so much of Lavenrunzian technology would be of little value stretch far, but the Lord of the Mountains has no power over the most fertile of the realms."

"Oh Io," Neodie had shaken her head and pressed her lips together, a dismissive gesture. "If only you were a reliable scout and not one perched on the edge of sanity, I could go to Admiral von Scholar and present him with something to settle his doubts. Captain von Hohenloe has begun to worry the Admiral, I do not know how much longer he will tolerate her creeping progress." Need's expression had indicated that she was amazed that the Admiral had let it go this far. "Well, I'm simply here to let you know that you must be ready to make for the shuttles at a moments notice. I do not wish to hear that you kept anyone waiting and you do dawdle so."

And with that, Neodie had departed. Her administrative post lacked the high profile her sister seemed to reflect by her carriage and air of importance, yet Iolanthe had no doubt that she would achieve success in her endeavours.
Her work ethic was extreme, her talents enviable and her ambition knew no limits. Neodie was an exemplary Lavenrunzian.
Paired, the sisters seemed shadow and light. Neodie fair skinned, hair gold as wheat in the sun and always neatly tied back in stringent regulation style. Only their eyes were similar, though her sister's were a cornflower blue.

Sister Light and Sister Dark, Neodie's friends had named them and Iolanthe could still hear the taunting voices even now.

At least Neodie grew out of such things. Iolanthe thought. It'd been difficult even with her psychic intuition to understand that her sister had been unaware of the hurt she inflicted on Iolanthe in that way children had of maintaining innocence and malice in a fragile balance.

"I want…" Iolanthe whispered, stroked the long fronds of a wild asparagus plant. "I want to breathe the air of Darkover, I want to be free."


Alekandro, Captain of the Guard

Alekandro was driven from sleep by a gnawing hunger that demanded his attention and rising from his bed sheets he was surprised to discover himself blissfully free of pain.
There were minor aches and a slight stiffness to his neck, but by comparison they were insignificant. Remembering the raivannin and the Domna Shavanni's advice against attempting to use his laran Alekandro resisted the urge to reach out and touch Rohan's mind.
At least his Bredu seemed to have regained some colour; whatever the leronis of Aldaran had done, it was working to restore the young man.

Uncovering plates and bowls that had been placed on a table close by, Alekandro was relieved to find an assortment of food and broth that was still warm. His stomach complained and before light-headedness unbalanced him, he pulled out a chair and sank into it. Drawing a bowl of broth into place and plucking out a baked roll, Alekandro set himself to eating.
Soon he would have to make himself presentable; courtesy dictated that he make himself known to the Lord of this place and give his thanks for his life and Rohan's.
But what of Alton? How soon can word reach Armida from deep within the Hellers?


Lirielle, Trainee Arilinn Tower

She'd returned to her chamber. Her own room in Arilinn tower! Delight still prickled her senses, made of the chamber much more than it truly was. In her excitement, Lirielle equated the small room with a Keeper's private chambers in her tower.

But flashes from her past still milled through her mind and she was aware that for weeks, perhaps months yet, she would be unable to look Caitlyn or Elanna in the eye without blushing.
And the one memory that she still dug out repeatedly and studied with minute fascination. Mother.
More than anything, Lirielle was determined to know this woman. I will find you mother. There will be no place that I will not search.
For the first time, Lirielle realised that in no small part, her absent mother had driven her in her choices.

She felt Jeran searching for her and reached out to open a hesitant rapport.
"I'll meet you in the common room."
Sensing his assent, she broke the contact and spent a moment more, considering the beautiful features of her mother. Then burying the memory, protected by barriers she fashioned solely for this image, Lirielle let her mind dwell on the question of her star stone as she hurried down from her rooms to meet Jeran. When will they give me a matrix?

Jeran had been curious, but preserved a mannerly reticence in giving her his escort to Thendara. Now the hard part—meeting with her Circle.

They were all assembled, not in the comfortable lounge room that they normally used for off-duty congregating and socializing, but in the Keeper’s reception chamber, emphasizing the formal, almost grave aspects of this meeting. Everyone was curious; tension pervaded the air. They were so close, even when not aligned in rapport, that it was difficult for them not to partake of each other’s feelings.

They sat formally, in the order of the Tower—Caitlyn facing the door in the Keeper’s chair. Next on her right, Coryn Ridenow, Second in Arilinn, a superb mechanic and a telepath almost as strong as Caitlyn herself. Then Desideria Aillard, chief technician, Elanna Ridenow, monitor, Melysa Leynier, Derik Ardais, Carvala di Asturien, Hilary Syrtis-Lanart, Auster Lindir-Alar, and Genyver Delleray. They had assembled wordlessly, arriving virtually together, and seated themselves. Now they were all looking at her.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced at Elanna. “You have all been part of our discussions on how to save the Towers for Darkover. You are all aware of the work we have done over the last thirty years and more to test the limits and possibilities, to review the histories and traditions, to examine the ways and expectations of our people, Comyn and commoner, to determine how to open the Towers without setting off a bloodbath and losing the last small hope we have to return Darkover to the path of advancement and enlightenment.”

They nodded, slowly.

“You know that we have made—experiments—that could provoke a terrible loss of confidence in our Tower if they were exposed without the careful preparations we have begun. We have discovered vast lacunae in our knowledge of our own powers and abilities—been humbled by what we do not know. We have tested what we thought we knew and found much that is not true, much that is incomplete.”

They all nodded again, some vigorously (especially Desia,) some doubtfully (especially Derik.)

“And you know why we have had to keep this secret—what we have learned from the minds of those who come to Arilinn to send messages, for healing, to bring tribute, or even simply to say that they have seen and spoken to one of the vai leroni. Superstition has a terrible hold on our people, Comyn and commoner alike, and little has changed since the day when the mob haled Ellesendra Aillard forth from Tramontana and impaled her before her own gate, only because she was alone with a man not her kinsman, outside her Tower, for a night.”

Practically as one, they shuddered, and Derik, again, nodded decisively. Older than any there, older than any Tower worker except old Lorina, Keeper of Dalereuth (and she rarely entered the screens anymore,) Caitlyn remembered the incident from her earliest days as a rikhi, a Keeper-in-Training. The Tramontana monitor, in her grief and horror, had suddenly linked with her twin sister in Arilinn, and the whole Arilinn Circle had seen Ellesendra’s death agonies through her eyes. Caitlyn had vowed then that no Keeper on Darkover would ever be impaled again, and she had worked slowly and carefully ever since becoming Keeper of Arilinn, to advance this goal. Of the others at Arilinn, only Coryn had been alive then, a child too young to understand. But Ellesendra had been Desideria’s mother’s kinswoman, and perhaps that had more than a little to do with her refusal to train as a Keeper, in spite of her outstanding aptitude.

“We had hoped to train a new generation of Keepers, to slowly change the shape of the Towers, to infuse our work with truth and slowly smother superstition. We hoped Lirielle might be the first Keeper in generations trained based on what we have learned of how laran really works, rather than traditions mindlessly accepted from ancestors long dead. Within three, maybe four generations, working carefully and using the powers of communications and reason and the hardships of necessity, we could have brought about an era when anyone with the ability, like Desia, could become a Keeper, for a year or a lifetime, without enduring the training that makes us unfit for human society.”

“We no longer have that luxury.”

She looked around, steadily, from face to face. The tension in the air was an almost palpable thing.

“A Keeper is forsworn.”

She gathered them into the rapport that was so effortless, so natural. Drawing Elanna into the communication, they shared everything they had learned from Lirielle, and Caitlyn shared what she had learned from Raineach. A sense of dread hung heavy in the air when they finished.

Derik’s face was set hard and stony. Tears were trickling down Elanna’s cheeks. Desia was shaking her head, face buried in her hands. Disciplined, they brought themselves under control.

“I told you, time was running out…” Desia murmured softly.

“And I told you that the most common oath now taken at practically every minor Cortes in the Domains has now become ‘By the virginity of the Keeper of Arilinn,’” Derik said a trifle harshly. “The cult has not diminished, it grows ever stronger. There are not enough candidates coming to the Towers anymore, not enough to learn the things you and Caitlyn and Coryn and Auster and Carvala have been creating new ways to teach, not enough to take that teaching out among Comyn and commoner, and give them something else to value the Towers for besides the resident virgin!”

“Enough.” Caitlyn said quietly, and there was silence.

“I am going to Thendara. I must speak with my cousin Marcus, and learn more of young Rafael. And…” she almost faltered, then set her jaw hard. “I must speak with Lord Alton.”

Hilary swallowed. “Must you, Caitlyn? Isn’t it bad enough that we know?”

She shook her head, and they could all see the struggle behind the Keeper’s calm detachment, just for a moment. “Oh, Gods, how I wish I could leave him ignorant. But a terrible crime has been done against him. He has the right to have a say in Raineach’s judgment. I only hope I can persuade him to allow us to deal with it, to help us… to try and repair some of the damage and head off the worst of the possible consequences.”

“How?” Elanna asked quietly. “You are right, Caitlyn, we do not have sixty years, or even twenty. The time is upon us. How will we deal with it?”

Caitlyn nodded. “I have considered this. We will start by making an announcement at the Comyn Council. I, Caitlyn of Arilinn, have decided that it is time to change the wording of the Keeper’s Oath.”

Eyes widened, but Coryn’s lips twitched. He had recommended this to Caitlyn, some time ago, and she had dismissed it, saying the time was not yet.

She nodded to him, her face softening briefly with a rueful acknowledgement.

“Change it?” Desia’s voice was challenging, skeptical.

She nodded again. “Yes. In place of “keep myself virgin to be worthy of my duties,” we will now swear to “keep myself pure to be worthy of my duties.”

Desia frowned. “It’s just a word, they mean the same thing. It won’t change anything.”

“Oh, won’t it?” Coryn’s eyes narrowed. “Remember, dear cousin, I spent five years in the cortes. ‘Virginity’ is a very precise word, with a very precise meaning. ‘Purity,’ on the other hand, can mean a great many things. It can even mean,” he lowered his chin a little and looked steadily into her eyes, “not stepping into the relays without channels that have been cleared to a pristine state of purity.”

Her jaw dropped. Then, closing her mouth, she half-grinned, appreciating the deviousness of this maneuver.

“But do we have time for this?” Auster asked. “After all, the common folk of Darkover—and even the more conservative and hidebound among our comyn kin—will not accept such a quibble in the face of their attachment to the Keeper’s hymen.”

Caitlyn snorted. “Perhaps so. But this will be accompanied by a dozen or more other small changes, implemented immediately. Some of which you know already—we have discussed them. Others will require the cooperation of a few influential comyn on the Council and standing high in the Domains. Even Lord Alton, if I can persuade him. And perhaps it will help that Lirielle has chosen the Keeper’s path. He will not wish to see… well.” She trailed off.

There were more nods around the Circle, now. They saw her reason for going to Thendara more clearly.

“You know that you can call upon us for any aid in speaking to our kin,” Melysa said softly.

Caitlyn nodded. “It will mean a greater sacrifice than that, however. You know what we discussed. Derik is right, there are too few coming to the Towers to be trained. We cannot count on the transfer of knowledge by natural flow.” She swallowed. “When I return, we will have to put into effect the plan we discussed last Midwinter.”

They all knew what she meant. Arilinn had the largest, best-trained, most capable Circle of all the Towers on Darkover. The other Towers were missing key people, and their ability to examine and train laran-gifted individuals for Tower work, or even ordinary management of their own gifts, was diminishing. Several Towers had sent to Arilinn for help, and while they had managed to dispatch a few trained telepaths (most recently, Camilla Lindir,) there was an endless demand. They had decided, last Midwinter, that even if they were unable to recruit replacements by the upcoming Midwinter, in spring some of the Arilinn Tower Circle would set out, to do temporary duty at other Towers.

Hilary was scheduled to go to Dalereuth; Auster to Comyn Castle at Thendara. Melysa had volunteered, somewhat reluctantly, to go to Tramontana. There had been no requests from Neskaya, but they did not discuss that, now. The wound was too new, the pain too great.

None of them liked the idea of losing each other, but they knew that now it was more critical than ever.

“Fortunately, Raineach did not share her secrets with her Circle.” They were all a little amazed at that—their own rapport was so complete that the idea of keeping secrets from one another was incomprehensible—but they understood Caitlyn’s relief. “Perhaps the others at Neskaya remain true to the oaths they took when they received their matrix stones, and to the desire to serve Darkover that should be the purpose of every Tower.”

Elanna shook her head. “Poor things, it will be terrible for them… they have trusted Raineach. They will not be able to believe what she did… deceit… betrayal… the crime against Lord Alton… He is a good man, Caitlyn, I have met him. It… it hurts to think of him, abused so… betrayed so… And Lirielle… she is such a dear child. And now she knows her mother’s face… she will almost certainly wish to find her…” She buried her face in her hands.

Derik said, angrily, “By Zandru’s forge, I could impale Raineach myself! How dare she count her own Circle, her child’s father, even her own child, at nought for her own ends!”

“Again, enough.” Caitlyn’s voice was stern. “I will deal with Raineach, or Comyn Council will deal with Raineach, when I have done what I need to do at Thendara. Until then, we must do what we can to contain the damage.”

“Coryn, I leave the Tower in your hands. Desia and Elanna… I leave it to you to begin Lirielle’s training. Elanna… should she bring up anything about her mother…” She stopped, considered, met the monitor’s eyes steadily. “Do as you think best.”

Desia said, “Very well, Caitlyn, but which training? I warn you, I will refuse to participate in the old training.” She stared at her Keeper challengingly.

Caitlyn nodded. “No, you are right, Desia. Perhaps we are not truly ready,” she glanced apologetically at Derik, “and certainly Darkover is not yet ready… but we are between the trap and the cookpot. All choices are ill, but perhaps some evils will be easier to amend than others. Begin the new training.”

Desia nodded. “There is another thing to consider,” she added. The others looked at her, questioningly.

“Remember the Aldaran girl? Those dreams? That was the true Aldaran gift. Even now, those people you saw, Caitlyn, might be approaching Darkover. They might even be here. We cannot allow Raineach’s folly to precipitate an uprising of commoner against Comyn… or worse, blood-feud among the Comyn and chaos in the Towers.”

“Exactly, Desia. And that is another reason why, when I return, Hilary and Auster and Melysa must be prepared to set out. The other Towers must know of this, and we must all be prepared to work together.”

She looked around at her Circle, dearer than kin, bredin all. “Carvala, I hate to ask it of you, but I must have a chaperone on my journey, and there are no women in Jeran’s retinue.” The mechanic nodded. “Of course, Caitlyn.”

“We start first thing in the morning, and we will waste no time on the road. Have Martyn prepare the Arilinn banner and detach a couple of guards to ride with us, as well.”

Soberly, they all stood, and left the reception room, some to the Tower Room, some to other duties. There was no need of speech, or farewells, among them, but for the rest of the night, their rapport wrapped each of them with an extra warmth.

Rohan cautiously opened his eyes. For some time, he had been aware of being both conscious, and not in agony. The jolting had stopped. It was a curious sensation. Perhaps it was a dream? He looked straight ahead, uncomprehendingly, seeing a vista of plaster and heavy wooden beams, somewhere in front of him.

No, above him. He was lying on his back. He was a trifle dizzy, and the residue of pain hovered along his nerve-margins (something told him it would be a poor choice to try and move,) but he was not actually thinking of oblivion as a desirable release from torture.

He blinked at the ceiling (it must be a ceiling, if he was lying on his back,) equably for some moments. Then it occurred to him to see if he was alone.

“Alek? Bredu?”

A sheet of white lighting engulfed the space behind his eyes with a stab, and he could not repress a groan. But it was only a stab. It did not continue, although it left him feeling a little sick.

Where was he?

It had been difficult to remain cheerful, but Algar had made the effort, for Venzan’s sake. His half-brother had already been uneasy, scarred by recent events and worried about an uncertain future. Although Algar had no particular love for the Cristoforo monks, (knowing how they felt about men like him,) he knew they would care for the boy well, and ensure that he acquired enough learning to carve out a life for himself as coridom to some minor Lord, perhaps in the Lorrilards, perhaps not.

It had been a bitter, bitter homecoming. The last homecoming for Algar, for there would be no more Ridenow at Carroldale Pass, the home of his youth. With the departure of the forge-folk, and the Gensalles clan of smiths and metal-workers, there was no way to sustain the estate, which had never been wealthy to start with.

His father had tried everything to save it, even a late (and, in Algar’s opinion, ill-advised) marriage to the eldest Gensalles daughter, a move which had cost him the support of much of his own far-flung family. Unlike most of the Comyn, the Ridenow were a fairly numerous clan, and they married widely—but not to out-and-out commoners.

Not for the first time, Algar wondered why the Comyn insisted that the offspring of honest, hard-working, intelligent, creative men like Serko Gensalles were beneath the touch of a Comyn, when it came to marriage, but a vicious old wastrel like Garreth Serrais was the ideal husband for a shy, gentle girl who winced at the sound of raised voices and took pleasure in raising songbirds. Merciful Avarra, look after poor Romilla. Only sixteen, married off to that elderly lout, and already pregnant…

He’d dared to remonstrate with his father about that, but the old man was too far gone in rage and pain over the long, losing fight to save Carroldale. His commoner bride had died giving birth to Venzan, and there was no one to restrain him any longer in his uncontrolled rages. When Romilla had changed her mind and refused to take the Keeper’s training at Dalereuth, his fury had known no bounds. Only a man on the edge of madness could take such vengeance on his own daughter as to marry her to a swaggering, sneering old bully like Serrais.

It had been Romilla’s decision that had sealed the end of Carroldale, to be sure. But by that time, the forge-folk had already gone, their priestess explaining reluctantly to Ferenz Ridenow that their tokens and charms were simply not adequate to get any more metal from the Carroldale lode.

“We are sorry, vai Dom,” the strange, dark little woman had said, in her heavily-accented cahuenga. “There is more metal there—much more, we know that—but we cannot reach it. We are going to our kinfolk at Sen-nat’sha har-vyallen.” The forge-folk had their own names for places, and did not share their meanings with others. His father had sent word of this to Algar, two years ago, on his last visit to Carroldale.

Algar had offered them hope—he and others at Neskaya were trying to revive the old matrix-assisted techniques for mining inaccessible veins of scarce metal ores, and had made good progress at it. Perhaps if the Dalereuth Tower could assemble a Keeper’s Circle of sufficient power, they could bring up enough ore to keep the Carroldale smithies glowing.

Romilla had just been going through threshold sickness, then, and she had been attracted by the notion of training as a Keeper. He’d taken her to old Lorina, for testing, and the ancient Keeper had been pleased. “We will ask Arilinn to send us someone, to help me with her training. It is becoming difficult for me, even to ascend the steps to the Matrix Chamber,” the old woman had said. “But I would be so happy to think that I could leave Dalereuth with a Keeper, that I will try to remain here until her training is complete. Then, if you can return and teach the Dalereuth Circle these mining techniques, she can assist your father and the Gensalles.”

The Gensalles had been willing to stay, working with poor surface-grade ore and what raw sows they could purchase from traveling traders, if there was hope that the Dalereuth Tower could once again assemble a Keeper’s Circle of sufficient power to bring up the ore they needed for their smithies.

And then, this past Midwinter, just as she was over the threshold sickness and preparing to enter the Tower, Romilla had suddenly changed her mind. It would be too hard, she said. She had no wish to be a pawn, she would not have her life ordered so.

And his father had flown into a rage, and announced that very well, then, she would be married immediately to Garreth Serrais, who had loaned him, and Algar’s older brother Francisco, a great deal of money over the last few years as they tried to save Carroldale. He had asked for her, and if she would not have her life ordered by the Tower, then she should have it ordered by Serrais.

The Gensalles had left, explaining regretfully that with the holy virgin of Dalereuth losing her powers, and no holy virgin to replace her, it was clear that the favor of the Gods was gone from Carroldale, and they would have to seek new homes elsewhere. And that had effectively been the end of Carroldale.

The settlement Garreth Serrais had provided for Romilla’s marriage had allowed them to pay their debts, and enough left over for Francisco to move to Temora, and buy a fishing boat. They had scraped together a sufficiently respectable gift for the monks to allow Venzan to take training at Nevarsin. Ferenz would remain in the decaying manor house, with a few retainers to wrest a meager living from the demesne farm, but there was no point in thinking that it would ever be a viable home for the Carroldale Ridenow, ever again.

Algar had tried to shield Venzan from the worst of it, making the journey as pleasant as possible, talking about the new and wonderful things he would learn at Nevarsin, stopping to visit kinsfolk wherever they could. It would be as well to have as many kinfolk as possible acquainted with Venzan. When the boy finished at Nevarsin, he would need to find congenial employment.

They had been so close! So close to saving Carroldale, so close to demonstrating a new and valuable function for the Towers of Darkover. He sighed, and turned over on the thin straw pallet which was all the tiny inn in this little hamlet between Nevarsin and Neskaya could offer. He was getting too old for such journeys.

“Algar, Algar. Algar Ridenow, what news have you from Aldaran?”

Raineach’s touch was unmistakable. He chuckled wearily. She could not even wait for him to make the last two days of journey between Nevarsin and Neskaya, eh? Always hungry for news. But why, he wondered, out of a journey that stretched from the southern Lorrilards, up through Serrais and the lands of the Altons and the Kilghard Hills, and through the city of Nevarsin, was it Aldaran she was curious about? He’d only spent two nights at Storn, and a few villages between there and Nevarsin. Could she have some sense of what he had encountered in Storn?

To tease her, he made her wait. “An eventful journey, Raineach. Alton is convulsed by banditry, and the rumors of a fierce and well-armed bandit leader in the Hellers named Hawkfist are flying here, there, and everywhere. The herds had weathered the winter well, most places where we passed, and there has been enough moisture to bring the crops up in fair abundance.”

“We passed a number of Comyn on the road, heading to Thendara, though our path did not lie that way. Rumor has it that the old blood between Sain Scarp and Falconsward is running high again; I would not be surprised to hear of raids, this fall. But the MacAran has a marriageable daughter, and Eduin of Sain Scarp has just lost his wife, so perhaps a judicious marriage might avert bloodshed.”

“Amalda Rockraven, Hammerfell’s sister, who married Marko MacEwyn and moved to Nevarsin, has birthed twins. They attribute that to you, by the way. The holy virgin of Neskaya is well thought-of here; all the non-Cristoforos are very proud of Neskaya. I believe MacEwyn is planning to send a large tribute, though intentions and actions are not always the same.”

“Oh, and—” he deliberately kept his mental tone very casual, “Some very odd strangers indeed came to Storn while we were there, in the train of the heir to Aldaran. They are not Darkovans.” He paused; let that sink in. “They come from beyond the stars. And they mean to make homes here.”

There, take that, oh Raineach-of-the-insatiable-curiousity, he thought, with the ghost of a mischievous chuckle.

********************************

Leister Mac Rymon was only two days’ ride from Armida when it happened. He’d been wary and careful enough, riding alone and swift (Ann’kas had told him to make all haste,) with Esteban’s message for Lord Alton. Mountain-born and bred, a guardsman of Aldaran since he was old enough to use a sword properly, he knew every trail and track in the Hellers, and a good portion of the Kilghards, too. He’d done border patrols and fire watch in the area around Scaravel, and at least he knew the way to Armida, though he’d never been there.

He kept his ears cocked and his eyes open, but even the most alert rider can’t hear what isn’t there to be heard—or is masked by the sound of his horse’s hooves. It was only at the last possible moment that he heard the whistle of the bolt that sank into his back, on the left side, between the fifth and sixth ribs.

Kelnat the Black clapped the young archer on the shoulder. “Well done,” the big, black-haired, black-bearded man told his comrade, as they watched the rider slip from his horse, to lie limp on the trail.

“We’re not done, though.” He took two men, and went up to the body, noting the Aldaran guards livery. He stood scrutinizing it, eyes narrowed. “hmmm…. Would he wear Aldaran livery? Perhaps. Still—” He bend, and with the tip of his knife, he ripped the Aldaran crest from the man’s tunic. “They’ll recognize the colors. It will appear a clumsy attempt at disguise.” He grinned, a feral, wolfish grin. “It is a clumsy attempt at disguise, after all. And now, let’s see,” he bent over the body, and pulled out the crossbow bolt. Then, pulling Leister’s own knife from its sheath, he carefully stabbed the corpse, just where the bolt had entered, disguising the nature of the wound and bloodying the knife.

“A falling out among thieves, eh? Very appropriate.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter, and the men with him laughed, too, dutifully. “All right. We’re going to leave this fine fellow here. It’s close enough to Armida, and they haven’t searched here yet. It’s along the line of retreat from the last raid.”

Artistically, he rearranged the corpse a little, flinging out one arm, laying the bloody knife just beyond the hand. When he finished, he stood up, removed his leather gauntlets and slapped them against his thigh with satisfaction. “All right, now, Stenn—be sure every we were never here, and follow us back to the hollow.”

He and the other man left their most experienced woodsman and tracker—it was rumored that Stenn had been trained by catmen—to confuse the traces of their presence and make certain they could not be tracked, following them back to one of many tiny, well-hidden dens where three or four men could spend a quiet night before melting back into the Hellers.

"Knowledge is of the greatest importance, indeed." said Karen, nodding. "Wisdom is what makes knowledge actually useful. She smiled and said, "Lord of Aldaran, tomorrow morning my people will bring gifts here as a sign of our respect and friendship, and you will see how distance even here on Darkover means little to us, and thus the matter of unusued lands is perhaps more of an open book than can be readily seen. I recommend that your sentries be told to look for the coming of my people from the skies."
Doctor Kotzebue, in his civil service formal black and silver, and Lieutenant Hochswender, in formal blues like the Captain, repressed smiles and looks of curiousity, to see how the Darkovans would meet what Karen said through Shavanni.

Aboard the Beowulf

Anna burst into the hydroponics area with a radiant smile on her face, her blue eyes huge with excitement. "Io, Io!" she cried. "The last message from the Captain...we're going to send down another shuttle! You and me! They want another scientific complement, and we're it! Can you imagine! In twelve hours we go down--I don't think I'll be able to rest!"

Lieutenant-Colonel Baron von Falkenstein respected Karen von Hohenloe only as a uniform and rank; apart from that, privately, never showing a lack of discipline to subordinates, he thought of her as a typically sloppy aviator and a technocratic naval officer. But he blessed the experience he had had with being on ambassadorial staff that made him a good candidate to lead the next mission in; really, he would assume a high administrative rank the moment the colony was put together, but for now his rank in the Imperial Marine Corps would suffice to give him seniority.
Population density, the satellites indicated, was greater in the rolling country south of the mountains. Thus he was taking no chances; a refuelling dirigible was to be put up immediately, and recon aircraft brought down with the shuttles; this time two would be brought, and things would be done properly.
Once, one of his ancestors had met savages of The Territory, naked and covered with paint, in the resplendance of 18th Century Uniform. His had changed little since the 19th. As he stood, white gloved, in a blue wool tunic, sash being wound round by his marine servant, his sword freshly polished, gold leaves and leopards and crowns embroidered on the uniform, he felt excitement, that he saw reflected in his blue-grey eyes. His hair had grown scarce, but he had a fine head, chiseled, strong cheekboned, square chinned, with an eagle's beak nose.
A commander's face, indeed.
He smiled slightly and nodded to his servant, who presented the sword to him.

Alekandro, Captain of the Guard

Despite that protocol demanded Alekandro Ardais present himself to Lord Aldaran, he'd lingered in the chamber set aside for the two rescued hali'imyn. Loathe to leave Rohan unattended, he'd delayed and spent the hours gazing from the window. Now that night hung heavy over the castle and light snow had begun to fall, the glass only reflected his own pale features back at him.
The green depths of his eyes still seemed clouded to his inexperienced judgement and he wondered if it was the raivannin affecting his senses still, leaving him feeling mutilated; violated.

At the soft groan from Rohan he spun round and hurried to his friend's side, kneeling down to look into his bredu's eyes, relieved at the flicker of recognition that passed across the young man's features.

"Aldones, bredu," he sighed. "I thought you would never wake."
He reached for the goblet he'd placed beside Rohan's pallet, knowing that a terrible thirst would be upon his friend. Such blood loss as he'd suffered, it could not be otherwise.
Gently he lifted Rohan's head, placed the cool rim against lips that like his own were chapped from exposure and misadventure; let water drip into the mouth.

"There's raivannin yet in our blood," he said, wiping liquid that spilled from Rohan's lips with the edge of a sleeve; wincing at the dirt that spoiled the white of the cloth. "Don't be tempted to test the reach of your mind Ro, or your laran will be denied to you all the longer. I cannot remember when last they forced the foul drink on me, but I don't think it will longer than a day before we are restored."
He let out a ragged breath then, a smile forced to his lips as he lowered the goblet.

"Bredu, I didn't dare even think of loosing you," he said. "Never the less, it is one burden less now that you are awake."
He glanced at the table close beside the door to their chamber and cursed the raiders and their raivannin silently. The broth was cold now and he lacked even the spark of laran he'd need to warm it.

"Our hosts have been kind. Lord Aldaran it is to whom we owe thanks for our rescue and our current shelter." He rose. "Have you strength enough to eat?"
Wondering if there would be bathes close by and clothing into which he could change, Alekandro began mentally to challenge the lesser obstacles in his path this night.
With Rohan's waking, everything seemed less sombre and impossible.


Raineach, Keeper of Neskaya

Raineach's eyes flared wide, a subtle frown wove across her features.
But mention of the holy virgin faded from her mind as Algar delivered the news that certainly seemed to her the very gift the gods had reserved for her.

"Faring from the stars?" she let her excitement be known to him, expressed a subtle weave of amusement too at his light teasing. "Then their abilities must be great indeed Algar, tell me of these strangers. Leave nothing out." She wanted to know the taste of them, to learn the extent of their powers. What terror will this bring to the Council? Where Comyn fear any that would eclipse their power, this new force was bound to bring about their deepest fears.

"And Algar," she added. "Since when has any in my tower held store by superstition and holy virginity?" A gentle reproach, chiding him for even speaking so in jest. She'd worked hard to elevate the members of her circle, going to the extent of sending away those who stubbornly held onto their ignorance. Where did I send the last such? Dalereuth?
These too her shadow-sendings discouraged from long service in the towers, how many had abandoned their isolation for the comfort of hearth and home?
She banished such considerations from her mind, not because she feared Algar would intercept them - her skill was too fine and precise for that, but rather because she wished to focus all her intent on what he was about to disclose to her now.
Strangers, powerful strangers come to Darkover in her moment of need, indeed the gods were guiding her. She lacked for nothing now.

"Share all," Raineach coaxed Algar a final time. "And I will send Larion MacKallister to accompany you from Nevarsin." Knowing that the somewhat younger mechanic and the elder technician had been sharing a bed almost as long as Larion had been at Neskaya, it was Raineach's turn to tease and she smiled. "He deserves a small break from the workings of a tower besides." She laughed, spirits high. How she loved them all.

With no more doubts, all weight seemed lifted from her and Raineach could glimpse the brighter future she would bring about for her tower and all Darkover.


Melor, Lord Alton

The high ceiling of the chamber seemed to drift ethereally above Melor as he leaned back in his chair, resting and contemplating the aches of age aggravated by the day's hard riding.
No answers on the raiders had yet been yielded up, though a final patrol before night was completely upon Armida had yet to return.
He shivered, with the knowledge that with nightfall, Yllana would be traversing the overworld calling out to Alekandro.
Unhappily her call would go unanswered and Melor could not move himself to meet her and confirm her fears. Let her wonder, let her hope a little longer.

Where had they taken Alekandro? At once it came to him that the answers lay in Thendara, Comyn Tower's monitoring screens held the secret of his Captain's location and he cursed the fates that any Alton tower had long vanished in the age of chaos.

Lying on the table before him, the Aldaran dagger discovered among the dead of Alekandro's squadron, glinted in candlelight and the faded hues of dusk.
There had been no clue found in the blade, Deric di Asturien had assured the Alton Dom after searching it for memories with his laran.
But Melor still hesitated to touch the blade himself, knowing that possibly in Thendara some trace might be lifted by those more skilled.
Deric was no laranzu, despite the laran he possessed.

"Again, Thendara." The old lord sighed. Did nothing lie within his grasp here at Armida?

The thunder of riders came to his ears and he guessed that the last patrol had returned. Just in time as the snows without began heavily to fall.
The young lieutenant, the very man his thoughts had just touched on was shortly after shown into the Lord Alton's study (now also considered by the elderly noble a war chamber) by the Corridom of Armida, Rascard Tyall.

"A ves ordras, vai Dom," Deric began, "there has been a search of the surroundings of the raider's most recent pass into the Domain. They fringe the deadlands more daringly than any I know."

Melor grunted.

"The patrol went almost uneventful my Lord, but for the discovery of a dead man. It's possible there was a disagreement settled." Deric narrowed his eyes and added. "At least this was done with the weapon of a man, he was killed by a blade. And…" a pause. "The man wore Aldaran colours, some attempt was made at disguise. The crest appeared to have been torn away, deliberately or accidentally I cannot say."

"Then we have still nothing more than speculation Lieutenant," Melor sighed. "Still, I'm wary of this. How convenient that this new indication of Aldaran involvement falls into our hands so soon after the last, do you not think? The Raiders have been careful of their identity until now. What has changed?"

"I can't say my Lord," Deric shook his head. Fatigue showed, etched into his face like a woman's veil. Dirt too clung to him and Melor shook himself to action. Rising from his chair he crossed to where the young man stood and gestured toward the door.

"You will show me this corpse," he said. "Then you will bathe and sleep. You are trained in Voice are you not Deric?" The Lieutenant nodded and Lord Alton continued, leading them both through into the long hall of Armida. "Tomorrow you will leave with the blade we have found and the clothing of this possible raider with my words for the Council. If it is true that Aldaran lies behind these attacks then our action must be swift, for in their acts lies plainly the abandoning of the compact and this above all else we cannot allow to pass unpunished."
His words were calm, but fury still simmered within the heart of Melor; unchecked it promised to grow.


Iolanthe, Botanist on the Beowulf

Delight choked back Iolanthe's response; her first attempt, a gurgle that shifted into a wordless shout of joy.
She spun around in a little dance, drew Anna in which set them both to giggling. Spinning in confined space until their combined gyrations threatened to upend a shelf of growing plants, the two women shared the moment as though the strain that had developed over the past hours had never been.

"Oh Anna, this is wonderful news," Io said at last. "Wundervoll, wundervoll" Her heart echoed the rhythm of her words, seemed even to evoke in the rapid pulses the shape of the word itself. Darkover, I'm going to breath the air of Darkover! "Neodie did seem to be hinting that something was in the air, but you know how she is. Very politic, never says anything forthright that can be said vaguely." She pulled a face, then shook it away.

Dark hair whipped round her features and she pulled it back, was in the act of pushing it up when she flushed. Shameless.
Darkovan thoughts flickered briefly through her mind and she let the hair fall back.

"We could keep each other company, I'll not sleep one wink either." She watched Anna secretly, head lowered to obscure her intense concentration. Had Anna chosen Neodie's way, simply ignoring anything that would not fit into her concept of reality as though Iolanthe's stranger behaviour had passed unnoticed?

Jeran, Alton Heir

Jeran sighed.
He'd agreed to let Caitlyn join him in travelling to Thendara but it seemed the swift preparations she'd promised would not be as quick as he'd imagined.

In truth, he'd under-estimated the time already spent at Arilinn tower this day.
It had flown past, aided in no small part by the turmoil that had seethed through his mind until Elanna had helped put a stop to it.
The light escaping the hold of the clouds above was already tinged with shadow and there was no possibility of them leaving the tower now.
So instead of a farewell, he spent the time with Lirielle learning from her all the questions that she had for Yllana and promising to get their sister to contact her with answers to each.

He could not equate the Jeran of this morning with the Jeran of the evening. That Jeran would not have been as interested in reaching Thendara, in seeing how Ardrin and Amyra faired or his niece Miralys.
Though the urge to leave Arilinn still left him feeling edgy, he found himself enjoying the time with Lirielle; knowing that she delighted in finally being able to talk freely with him.
She was not the hesitant girl of their journey to the tower, indeed he could already glimpse a woman taking form in her.
It will be hard for all concerned when you are Keeper, your beauty will be troubling to your circle Lirielle. He wondered quietly as his sister rambled on, what Caitlyn had done before age began to smooth away her own fragile beauty.

The Tower was quiet, that evening after Caitlyn had left. Derik had protested against her leaving with so insignificant a force—only Carvala to chaperone, and a banner-bearer and a couple of guardsmen, to protect and give consequence to the Keeper of Arilinn? Caitlyn had shaken her head. “Derik, Jeran is already delayed on an urgent journey, and my journey, too, has some urgency. We will not linger on the road long enough for consequence to matter. And the Alton men are well-armed, we will be safe. Besides,” she said with the glimmer of a smile, “since when have I required hand-and-foot service?”

That was true enough, even the imperturbable kyrri were sometimes a little surprised at the things Caitlyn chose to do for herself. Going down to the kitchen and helping them make a Festival cake from a recipe that had been old in the Hastur family when the Domains were young, for instance. She had taken little baggage, her and Carvala’s things between them barely burdened a pack horse, although she’d carefully packed her formal Keeper’s robes.

But she was gone now, and Elanna had already gone to visit Lirielle in the rikhi quarters, to explain something of what would be required of her in the early days of her training. Genyver and Melysa were in the relays, keeping watch, but there would be no major work scheduled for tonight. Hilary was sleeping—she was on duty in the Stranger’s room this tenday, and as a healer much of her work came to her during the day, when people visited the Tower to ask her assistance.

Coryn was in the mechanics’ room off the Matrix chamber, carefully breaking the last chunks of raw matrix crystal they’d received into blanks, and preparing to cut and polish them into “jewels.” It was delicate, difficult work, as it had to be done in insulating gloves, with a stasis field to protect the raw crystal from contamination.

Derik ‘found’ his mind there, and did not disturb him until he felt the relaxation of tension that meant Coryn was ready to lay the work aside for a while. Then he entered the room. “Coryn?”

“Hmmmm…?” he was wrapping the crystals and laying them in a heavily insulated box.

“Can you make a trap matrix?”

That got his full attention, and Coryn turned, frowning. “A trap matrix? Why? I mean, yes, I can, but… for what?”

Derik’s aspect was a little grim when he replied. “Keyed to Lirielle. To keep— unauthorized— people from probing her mind, or contacting her.”

It took Coryn a moment to understand what he was driving at. “To… ah. Raineach? Do you really think that’s necessary?”

Derik shrugged. “Think about it. She knows, now, that Lirielle is here. Do you think she’s incapable of trying to meddle with the evidence of her guilt? Or otherwise influence the girl? Look what she did to Lord Alton…”

It was a difficult idea for Coryn to encompass, but he supposed there was something in it. “Perhaps you’re right. At least until Caitlyn returns. All right.”

With a sigh, he turned to the table where a lumpy, shapeless silicate mass, cool and opaque, lay under a cloth. From a heavy insulated box, he selected five small finished crystals…


In the rikhi’s quarters, Elanna had brought Lirielle dinner herself.

“I thought you might be feeling a little lonely, now that Jeran is gone. And I am sure that you have questions.”

She smiled. “We are all eager to get to know you, but it’s a monitor’s privilege to know you best—and, in this case, first.”

She set the tray down, and arranged the dishes on the table. They were in the small common room, which had three small suites leading out of it. Only one was occupied, and that one had been hastily cleared of the dust of years and set to rights only today. But the common room was brightened by fresh flowers from Caitlyn’s own garden (even in the haste of leaving, she had remembered to have a kyrri cut some, and deliver them,) and the hangings were lovely—swirling colors and fantastic depictions of the Overworld.

“Later, we will go up to the hall and I will introduce you to more of your colleagues.”

With a gesture, she invited the girl to sit, and eat. How lovely she was, thought Elanna. And infused with a kind of eager, radiant warmth that was endearingly childlike now, but could mature into a truly potent personal charisma when she was older. She would make a formidable Keeper, if she could master the one requirement that could never be changed: powerful and unswerving self-discipline.

With a gesture, she indicated the nut-wrapped rolls of soft cheese and pastry. “Try some of these—it’s a recipe Genyver brought to Arilinn. They’ve become my favorite snack. What’s your favorite? Is there anything particular you’d like the cook to make for you?”


As dawn was stealing over the Tower the next day, Derik and Coryn carefully activated the innocuous looking lattice that would both protect Lirielle from the mental touch of anyone outside Arilinn Tower—even through the Overworld—and retain the identifying thought-impression of anyone who made the attempt.

There was surprise, and some politely concealed consternation, among the Aldarans present, when Karen von Hohenloe referred to her people bringing gifts. After all, in the mountains it was the custom for the host to gift his guests. But Dom Gabriel nodded, serenely, and regarded the Lav’runz’i with measured curiosity for a moment before responding.

“Your people will be welcome as guests, Countess von Hohenloe. We would be honored to make them comfortable here in the Castle, or, if they prefer, they may make camp in the meadow by Caer Donn. There is water there, and our people can provide you with wood and other needs, if you desire. I would be pleased to receive your Admiral, and discuss possible arrangements for a sojourn by your people in the mountains.”

“However, I must have a care to my vassals’ interests. Your folk will please discuss with me, any plans to travel in Aldaran. If you intend traveling widely, it were best that such Lords as The MacAran, at Falconsward, or Scathfell of Sain Scarp, or even Dariell of Hammerfell, not to mention many others, are aware that you travel with my countenance.”

He smiled a trifle ruefully. “The plains folk will doubtless tell you that we mountain folk are a fierce lot, only one remove from brigands, with our blood-feuds and our raiding. That is, of course, an exaggeration born of ignorance, and carelessness. But it is true that many of the mountain folk are over-ready to ask questions with the edge of a sword, and that the joy of a well-fought battle may be appreciated more than is strictly needful. I would not have unpleasant incidents arise through misunderstanding or ill-preparation.”

He was aware that Esteban’s interest had veered in another direction entirely, when Shavanni had translated the magic words, “look for the coming of my people from the skies.” Good. Perhaps that would distract his son from his over-sensitive care to the niceties of protocol and honor, and the proper deference to Aldaran. He grinned, suddenly, and looked much younger, almost boyishly engaging. “We will be most interested to watch your people travel from the skies. A wonderful thing. It is said that even in the Ages of Chaos, men were reluctant to travel in the skies of the Hellers, though I do not know why that should be, if they could travel in the skies at all. But if it was ever so, there is no man living who has seen it, and we will be like bumpkins seeing a wonder-show at a market-fair, I am certain.”

With a nod, he rose, to dismiss them. “We would be very honored, Countess, if you and your officers would join us tonight at table. The return of my son and my daughter-to-be was already cause for celebration, but I believe that a guesting of this significance will call forth wonders from the kitchens of Aldaran as we have not seen since Midwinter.”

He gestured to the young man at the table to open the door for them, and to the guardsman to provide them guidance back to their guest chambers and the small solar used only when the family had guests, gesturing for Esteban and Shavanni to remain.

When the strangers had gone, he turned to his son. Esteban was still staring bemusedly at the door, and Shavanni was watching him. Dom Gabriel said to the young man at the table, “Aidan, would you please ask Captain Beltran to join us, here?”

The young man bowed, and left through another door.

“Well. You have my thanks, daughter-to-be, for translating. You seem to have picked up a remarkable grasp of the strangers’ tongue, even with laran assistance.” Shavanni smiled. “Thank you, my Lord. Esteban, too, is learning. It is a very strange language.”

Beltran arrived quickly, as though he had not been far away (which, indeed, he hadn’t.) Dom Gabriel bade him make himself comfortable. “All right, now that you are all here, let me review, Shavanni, what Esteban and Beltran have already told me, and you can add to it.” They nodded.

“They were found between Edelweiss and Moray Peak, with an enormous metal sky car, and several smaller ground cars. There appeared to be between twenty or thirty of them, and about half of them remained behind with the large sky car. You said,” he turned to Beltran, “that they conducted themselves like a party of guardsmen—a military force. But there were women among them, perhaps like Renunciates.”

Beltran nodded. “There are some among those who came with us. Very much like Renunciates—they made no trouble on the trail, kept to themselves, but got on well with their comrades. And the men were very comfortable with them around, there was no jeering or muttering.”

Lord Aldaran nodded, and continued. “They were unused to riding, unused to mountain ways, but they learned quickly and without too much discomfort. You are correct, it does sound like soldiery. Now, the question is, how many of them are there altogether—here and on their sky ships—and are they all soldiery? Do they come in conquest?”

Esteban’s jaw began to take on the pugnacious jut that annoyed Shavanni, but she remained serene and deferential as she offered her speculations. “My Lord, I do not know precisely how many there are, but from my dreams, as well as what I could gather from talk, there are a great many of them—thousands and thousands.”

Beltran and Esteban looked slightly appalled—they had seen what the Lav’runz’i weapons could do. She continued. “I do believe that Karen von Hohenloe, at least, is very sincere about wanting to make homes among us in peace, not by conquest. But it is also clear that she feels there are some among her comrades that may not share that desire, and she is not the only leader of the Lav’runz’i. This Admiral Schiller, so far as I can tell, is the highest leader among them. I cannot tell from what she says of him whether she thinks he is one of those who would prefer peace, or not care so long as they get what they want.”

Dom Gabriel sat back, his eyes slightly narrowed, thinking.

Esteban, too, was thinking furiously. He was greatly intrigued by the Lav’runz’i devices, the ground cars and whatever brought them through the skies. And after much discussion with Shavanni, he had come to believe that they were not cowards or dishonorable, but just different. He wanted to learn about them, was wildly curious about them, but at the same time bristled instinctively at the idea that their strange weapons and large numbers might be used to threaten Aldaran. No matter what strange weapons they had, Aldaran belonged to Aldaran!

Dom Gabriel’s thoughts had gone in another direction entirely, but his face was not easy to read. He turned to Shavanni. “There is something that troubles you about them, isn’t there?”

She bit her lip. It was true, though she’d tried not to admit it, even to herself. “Yes, my Lord.” She paused, trying to think how to put it.

“Except for Doctor Kotzebue,” she smiled, momentarily, remembering the man’s eager questions, “they seem to have no curiosity about us, about our ways. It is as though who we are, how we live on Darkover, what is important to us—matters nothing to them. As though they have no need to care, because—while they may want peace—they do not need peace. There is no need for them to understand the people they have come to live among.”

“Understand, my Lord, I do not see this as hostile, or even conscious arrogance. What they needed to prosper on the trail, they learned quickly, and asked questions to understand. And Doctor Kotzebue, and to some degree Karen, were indeed somewhat curious about some things. But they seem to regard any knowledge other than what serves their immediate purpose as unimportant.”

She shrugged. “But they are soldiers, and perhaps there are others among them who will feel differently. Still, it makes me uneasy. Both for us, and for them.”

Lord Aldaran nodded thoughtfully. “That is an interesting observation, Shavanni. We will see how it is borne out, when more of their people arrive.”

Beltran asked, respectfully, “What is your intent in this matter, then, my Lord?” He looked at Esteban, whose attention had also been caught by the question.

One of Dom Gabriel’s brows rose. “For now, I am more comfortable having them under my eye, knowing what they are about. We will allow them to make camp at Caer Donn, even make a temporary home there for some of their people, if they wish, and if they wish our assistance in exploring the Hellers, we will give it. If they want lands in the Hellers, well, we will see what they want, and what advantage it might bring us to have them among us. There are many things to consider—whether they will put aside their weapons, whether they will enfeoff, or require charter, whether they will live by husbandry, or growing crops, what kind of craftsmen they have among them,” he saw Esteban’s jaw dropping a bit, and cut the list short. “In any case, many things to consider.”

“Now, Ann’kas, I will have you send a message-bird to The MacAran. Aidan, write that I would have that second lad of his—the one who came for testing by Domna Margali this past spring—to visit us, for fostering and education.”

The others looked confused at this apparent digression, but Gabriel smiled. “Domna Margali tells me that the lad has the old MacAran gift. Perhaps with some experimentation, and training, he can learn the rapport with sentry-bird.”

“Ahh— Excellent notion, my Lord,” said Beltran.

“Perhaps, if she likes him, he and Marysa might make a match of it,” Dom Gabriel considered. “Well, we will see about that when he comes. Now, Shavanni,” he turned to his future daughter-in-law, “how are those lowlanders healing—the Ardais and the other one?”

“Rohan Lindir-Aillard, and Alekandro Ardais, my Lord. Dom Alekandro’s wounds were not serious, and as the raivannin leaves his system he will be quite recovered, although the concussion will be giving him occasional headaches still for a few tendays. Dom Rohan’s wound was more serious, but it is healing, now. He should be improving quickly.”

“How quickly?” Dom Gabriel asked.

Shavanni was surprised. “He should be able to be up and around in a few days. Ready to ride in perhaps a tenday.”

The Lord of Aldaran smiled. “I would be willing to guest them for twice that, but I think it important that the Comyn Council learn, as soon as may be, of what has occurred here.”

“But Father!” Esteban protested. “What have they to do with us?”

Aldaran could not restrain a sigh. A glance at Shavanni told him that her quicker perception had grasped the meaning behind his words already. Esteban was not stupid, but he tended to think in well-defined channels, and it took some effort, occasionally, to jolt him out of them.

“My son, do you not see? With the coming of the Lav’runz’i, Darkover is no longer divided into Aldaran and lowland Domains. With the coming of these strangers, it is now simply Darkovans—and Lav’runz’i.”

He looked around at them. “We have a good many years of raiding and battle to overcome, especially in the margins of the Kilghards. Aidan,” he spoke again to the young man.

“My Lord?”

“Prepare a letter, with copies for all of the marcher vassals. Let it be known that I will sanction no raiding of the herds in the lands of Alton, Hastur, and Ardais. They may come to Aldaran to discuss this, if need be, but for now, my hand will rest heavy on any who defy this ban.”

Beltran’s brows rose. “They will not like that, my Lord. I heard that Rockraven of Moray Peak was planning to reave to some purpose among the folds of Whitemarch.”

Aldaran shrugged. “It cannot be helped. If need be, I will remit some of his tallage this year. But for now, we will offer no provocation.”

Esteban frowned. “You may well be right, Father, about the need to,” he swallowed distastefully, “make common purpose with the hali’imyn. But do you expect your vassals to see this?”

“It will take time, Esteban. They will come to the wedding, and we will have a council then.” They nodded.

“And if he is well enough, bid the Ardais Lord to table this night. He will have the privilege of meeting Aldaran’s other guests.”

Algar chuckled sleepily, and sent an apologetic thought to Raineach. “Z’para servu, vai Teneresteis.”

“For what it’s worth,” he added more soberly, “I reminded the folk who spoke of it that we are simply craftspeople, not unlike a smith or a tanner, and that you spend no time interesting yourself in the Gods on behalf of some townsman’s desire for a son and heir. For all the good it did. Anyway,” he took a deep, calming breath, and carefully remade his barriers so that the encounter at Storn was available to Raineach, just as he had experienced it.

“The folk of Aldaran and Storn, at any rate, seemed more intrigued than wary of these strangers. How Dom Gabriel will regard them is another matter. By the way, Raineach, that Storn girl has far more laran than I think she is aware of. I wonder why they did not send her to Neskaya for testing? It is too useful to know what gifts and talents are floating around out in Aldaran; I do not like the thought that such a strong donas is coming into flower without the Towers being aware of it. Who have we received for testing, lately, from among the Aldaran vassals?”

(OOC: The answer is: No one, they have all been going to Domna Margali at Aldaran, but no one at Neskaya knows that; only that no one from among Aldaran’s vassals has come to Neskaya for some years, now. It would not have been very noticeable, because there were never many, in the past, and it was a long journey.)

“Anyway, thank you for your kind thoughts, my dear, but please ask Lary first, whether he is still hip-deep in those kinetic lattices. He was making real progress on solving the psychimpulse multiplier conflict when I left, and you know how he hates to be interrupted at the moment of a breakthrough. I can wait another couple of days, if he’s deep into it.”

“On the other hand,” his mental chuckle was rich, “it would be refreshing to have some time together when we’re not both, um… depleted.” He sent her a chaste mental hug, listening for the silvery laugh that always woke an answering smile, and let the rapport drop, turning over into a dreamless sleep.

Margali knocked politely, but entered on her knock. Alekandro was standing near Rohan's bed, and Rohan was awake. "Evanda be praised!" she said matter-of-factly. "How do you feel, Dom Rohan?" She surveyed him keenly.

"That broth is cold. I'll have some hot brought, with some feverwort tea." She stuck her head outside the door for a moment, and a couple of young men in Aldaran livery came in.

"This is Kerndal, and Vencer, my Lords. They'll help you bathe, and bring you some fresh clothing. "You, Dom Alekandro, Dom Gabriel bids me to invite to his table tonight, if you feel well enough."

As she spoke, she was clearing away trays that held small bottles and boxes of herbs and distillations, bandages, needles, and other implements. "There. Make this a bit less like a sick room, though we won't move you to proper guest quarters just yet, I want to keep my eye on you a bit longer. Good."

"All right," she said briskly. "You rest as much as you can, Dom Rohan. If there is aught you need, send Vencer or Kerndal, they will know where to find me. Dom Alekandro, when you've bathed and changed, Kerndal will show you the way to the Hall."

And like a kindly-disposed minor whirlwind, she retired, leaving the two serving-men grinning at her back. They turned, and the darker-haired of the two nodded towards the other door. "Bath in there, my Lord. If you wish, vai Dom," he said to Rohan, "We can bring water and cloths and clean you up here for now, then you can have a proper bath later, yes?"

Rohan felt the room spin, slightly, at the sight of his friend’s face. “By all the merciful Gods!” he croaked, when Alek took the cup from his lips. “Am I glad to see you, Alek! Blast that filthy bandit to Zandru’s ninth hell and beyond. Where did you say we were?”

He looked around, mistrustfully. “Are you certain it is not some trick, some hoax, of the Aldaran?” Rohan’s sister had married an Ardais, and their little estate near Syrtis had suffered bitterly from the taking ways of the Aldaran nobles. He was not much inclined to grant any virtues to the Seventh Domain at the best of times, and at the moment, with his head aching like fury…

There was a knock at the door.

When the woman bustled out, Rohan exchanged glances with Alek, trying not to laugh. He had a feeling he’d regret it, if he did. “Well, we have our orders, vai Dom. My thanks, gentlemen, it would feel wonderful to shed a layer or two of this dirt.”

They could not continue their conversation about Aldaran with the servants present, but the woman’s manner had been somewhat reassuring. “An Ardais at the Aldaran table,” he mused. “Who would have thought it?”

Caitlyn and Jeran did not make much progress on their journey to Thendara that first night, having gotten a late start. And it was just as well, because when he mentioned that Lord Alton planned to remain at Armida, Caitlyn realized that they would have to split up the next day, with she and Carvala and the Arilinn guards making for Armida first.

She asked Jeran to simply announce to the Council that she was planning to attend, and would be arriving in a few days.

The next day, they took different roads from the village. They traveled swiftly, for Caitlyn could move swiftly when the need was great, and she wearied even Carvala, a much younger woman. They received fresh horses wherever they stopped; people were eager to give of the best in their stables for the Keeper of Arilinn, and since the horses they started with had been excellent, they left horses of good value in return. With fresh horses every few hours on the more-populated plains between Thendara, Arilinn, and Armida, they made good progress.

It was only two days later that the banner of the Keeper of Arilinn was seen approaching by the Armida guardsmen on lookout.

Alek

From behind, his new shadow instructed Alekandro through the convoluted corridors of Aldaran castle. Alek furiously trying to memorise every twist and turn that took him further away from Rohan. Without their laran the parting created more anxiety with every step that increased their separation.

Only moments before, clean and dressed in garments that revealed nothing of his status beyond an inference of being comyn born, Alek had stood in the doorway between their temporary quarters and the corridor leading into the labyrinthine home of the Aldarans.
Hesitant to leave Rohan, but with little choice, he'd given his bredu a parting glance that had elicited in response an awkward shrug.
Even without the touch of minds, he'd read the warning in Rohan's eyes. Watch your back.

He'd considered ordering Kerndal, his shadow, to take the lead against all protocol. But implying that their hosts were untrustworthy was scarcely going to win him any favours from Lord Aldaran. He sighed, aware of how naked he was without sword or even a short blade; his own among the side arms now carried by some brigand loose in the Hellers. Including the ring blending Ardais and Alton colours that Yllana had gifted him at their di catenas wedding. Yllana, do not despair!
He forced off the longing for his wife and daughter, for their home in distant Thendara and concentrated on the present.

"Right at the next turn vai Dom," Kerndal murmured, voice as unobtrusive as possible; deferential even.
Panic assailed Alek as he surmised that their goal was fast approaching.

If not for the raivannin I would have an ally at the Aldaran table! Silently he cursed Zandru and all his hells for the position that had been drawn for him by the lot of fate. No Rohan to debate every nuance with, no judgement but my own to rely on and tricky questions to pose and answer.

Fortunately the raivannin would screen his mind as effectively as any mental barrier; nothing could be accidentally inferred by an ill-timed thought.
His primary concern was how he and Rohan had come to be among an Aldaran party travelling through the Hellers and what had happened to the bandits, their former captors. His eyebrows rose at a sudden thought. Or are they perhaps one and the same?
It was a pity that he'd not had the chance to discuss the matter with Rohan, as his bredu might have retained consciousness when Alek had not.

Time to recall the lessons I was never expected to master, diplomacy as practised between the Domains. He silently told himself then scowled, knowing that all too often, diplomacy on Darkover involved swords.
I hope that the Lord of Aldaran does not take offence too easily, or I'll not see another morning!

"Straight-ahead vai Dom," Alekandro's shadow prompted helpfully. "The Hall is past the doors."

Breathing deep, Alek smoothed his features; schooling them as he'd often glimpsed his mother do. Her influence had ever been light and yet of his parents her successes were counted far higher than those of the more volatile, Lord Ardais.


Raineach

As the rapport faded from her mind, so did the smile on the Keeper's lips.
Impressions of the strangers, deceptively human in guise and yet implicitly unlike any Darkovan, filtered through her mind's eye.
Most telling, the spilled imagery that had accompanied the strengthening of the rapport between the Aldaran comynara Shavanni and the stranger.
As one who had scoured the records and visited the past through dangerous passage across time, Raineach was well able to glean more substance from these memories than perhaps any other.

"Siarbainn, star folk now the guests of Aldaran and not party to any Compact," she said, trembling at the thought even though it played into her plans. Without strong towers, the Comyn Council cannot enforce the Compact, certainly not against such powerful folk. What Lord in his right mind would not take fright at this news?

Yet there was more, as Algar's perceptive mind had tangled the mystery further. The puzzle of the Domna Shavanni, clearly trained and yet not by Neskaya!

I've been too focused, imagine not noticing an end to even a trickle such as flows from the Hellers of the laran gifted!
Her golden eyes glittered at the imagined consternation she did not need premonition to foretell. Panic would ensue in the Crystal Chamber, when she raised the possibility of the exiled Seventh Domain renewing some forgotten tower in the Hellers.
"Aldones be praised, I am ready."

But she'd run out of time for further speculation and refining of her plans. The night was growing older and her duties would not wait a second more.
Sighing, she rose and left her quarters making for the relay chambers where she could already feel her circle gathered; ready for the night's work.

Though the foundations of Neskaya stretched back even further than Arilinn, the structure that shaped itself around her now was not as old. Still the tapestries were faded with age and the precisely set stone rivalled any structure in the town surrounding the tower.
Climbing worn stone stairs Raineach reached the landing before a large arched door.

Opening and passing through, her gaze picked out Larion and conveyed the invitation exactly as Algar had worded it with a light touch, including her own permission. Algar you're half blind if you imagine anything will hold this one back.
She locked away her amusement, shared Larion's wide smile and resisted the urge to run fingers through his unruly hair. Not for the first time aware that the mechanic always seemed just to have just stumbled from bed.

"Let's begin," she called her circle to her. Studying each a moment before her eyes shifted to another. Protecting them has been no hardship. They are more beloved than my own life.

Matrix screens surrounded them, dark still though soon they would pulse with energies; power that should have destroyed her over a decade ago!
She glanced questioningly at Adriana and the monitor sank into her seat at the edge of the circle, mind blanked and ready.

One at a time, Raineach gathered the circle, gently guiding them into a familiar rapport; feeling the dark screens come alive…

Approaching Thendara, the Domains

"Breaker-One, this is Breaker-Two. We are five by five for our approach to the LZ."
"Understood, Breaker-Two. Out." replied the lead shuttle's pilot.
In the landing module's passenger area, Anna was sitting with her eyes closed; choppy weather was making the craft shake as if it was excitedly leaping up and down. One of the marine officers across from them was very still faced. He was remembering landing on the Channel Islands, the screaming of Iesus Christian fanatics, bullets and rockets going off everywhere, wading from a soup of comrades blood to get into the shallow surf and grimly lead a squad up the beach....
The upper atmosphere was left behind them, and they began a smoother descent, outside no longer churning clouds but suddenly the open sky, and rolling country, woods and fields, little clumps of villages, and a city like a model of ancient days, stone walls and turrets, a great tower and a donjon...and the two craft headed for an area of rocky open ground, shuddering mightily as their hovering systems took over, sliding them with monstrous ease to the ground.
Von Falkenstein stood as though the harrowing trip had been a walk in the park. He walked down the ramp as it opened, and the fresh air blew in...
"Marines! Disembark!" barked a voice.
The civilian scientists and observers moved out behind them...

Kaltry Venzales was thinking gleefully of the small fortune he stood to make in Thendara. Council season was just beginning, and this shipment of luxury goods would arrive at the Thendara markets just in time for the coridoms and housekeepers of the vai com’ii to find them useful in the rounds of entertaining and socializing, ordering new clothes, seeing what the sophisticated markets of Thendara had to offer for them to take back to their far-flung Domains.

He had marvelous fabrics—spider-silks from the weaving-villages of the Hyades, wonderful freshwater pearls from Mariposa Lake, the famous preserved fish-sauce, karun, from Temora, fine-drawn metal wire for inlaying and wrapping from the smithies of the Lorillard towns, even some of the fabled aphrosone-based aphrodisiac powders from Carthon—the kind that were rumored to keep a Dry-town bandit chieftain hale and virile enough to please his entire harem of wives and concubines in a single night!

He checked over the packtrain again, and its attendant guards. His own men, of course, but this cargo was valuable enough that he’d rented half a dozen mercenaries from the Guild-House at Valeron, as well. They had nearly twenty sturdy pack-chervines, the kind bred especially for him by Nikko Big-Thumb in Carcosa. The animals themselves were valuable, and he considered the merits of selling them in the Thendara livestock markets, too. After all, the nobles would want to keep their horses for riding. They wouldn’t be traveling fast, not with women in their parties, and a few good sturdy pack-chervine wouldn’t slow them down at all. Help carry home all the stuff they bought during the Council season. A good notion. He could always get more beasts from Nikko.

The road was not too dusty yet, it still being early in the summer, and the airy, soaring towers of Thendara Castle had been in view for some time. They’d reach the City well before nightfall. He looked around, to be certain that everyone was staying together. His adding-clerk, Tarril, rode close to the Renunciates, with his adding-sticks in a leather pocket on his saddle. Silly boy. They’d not given him a glance the entire trip, though he suspected they were amused by the attention. His two assistants, Gurtan and Stendaral, were near the back, as they should be, jogging wearily along, even their inexhaustible store of gossip used up for now. They’d acquire a fresh load in the City. Two servants, five packmen to deal with the stock… fifteen guards. All present and accounted for. Tired, but eager to reach the City.

Great Aldones! What was THAT!?

As one man, the entire packtrain came to a halt at the sight and sound of the vast things descending from the sky. “HOLD THEM, by Zandru! Or I’ll have your guts to bind my leggings!” he hollered, distracted from the spectacle by the sight of the appalled, startled pack-chervines grunting and sidling, read to bolt. He wheeled his own horse, and rode along side the pack train, whistling and clucking, trying to distract the frightened creatures’ attention from the… the… the huge, fiery objects settling onto the very road itself. He had to keep this cargo together, and in good condition—he’d put his entire capital into it.
“Naotalba twist the feet of any fool who bolts!” he bellowed. “KEEP THEM TOGETHER!” He drew his short sword and thwacked one of his guardsmen on the helmet, the man had been turning as though to run. “You! Jev! Grab that beast, there—that one, by all the demons in Zandru’s seventh hell! Now!”

By the time he had the impulse to turn and flee fairly halted, the gigantic things were on the ground. The packtrain huddled practically motionless, in terror.

Kaltry, who prided himself on being a more sophisticated man, was trying frantically to think what this could be? “Don’t worry, men!” he shouted with some bravado. “This is just some new sorcery of the com’ii and the vai leroni, arranged for the Council season!” A few of them relaxed a trifle, most looked at him doubtfully, and the leader of the Renunciates, one Jastra, openly laughed. Yes, truly, it was like no sorcery he’d ever seen or heard of.

Would it go away? Should they wait for it to vanish, or try to go around it? Fortunately, they were in the broad, rocky plain near the western gates of the City, there was some room to circumvent it, if they moved carefully. He was about to give the order, keeping one eye on the two objects, when one of them moved! A piece of it flopped outward!

And walking on that piece was a man! Or was it one of the old Hastur-Gods, come to life? It looked, it was dressed, like no man Kaltry had ever seen or imagined. He stopped short, mouth agape, staring at the creature coming out of the thing. His mind simply went blank.

High in the watchtower of Comyn Castle, the advent of the Lavenrunzian ships did not go unnoticed. The guardsmen on duty saw them first as a fiery glow in the western sky, as though one of the Darkovan moons had decided to descend at midday, rather than rise at eventide, and burst into flames in the process. They watched it for a moment, then one of them nudged the other. “Go and find the Officer of the Day.” With a backward look over his shoulder at the fireball, his companion ran.

The Officer of the Day was Cadet Valentin Kadarin-Elhalyn.

“A what? Are you drunk, man?” he asked scornfully.

“No, sir!” The guardsman insisted.

With a grumble, Valentin put down the practice sword and nodded to Gwynn Castamir. “Later, Gwynn. Let me check out what this fool is telling us.” He stripped off the leather practice breastplate, and distastefully shrugged his own tunic on over his sweaty shirt. He hoped the sweat didn’t stain the velvet. “If you’re dragging me up to the damned watchtower to no purpose, guardsman, you can bet you’ll be on honeybucket patrol for the next tenday,” he grumbled. “Falling moon, indeed.”

But the man had not been lying. By the time he made it to the watch parapet, the things were visible to every high point in the City, and people were coming out on balconies and towers to look at them. “Zandru!” he muttered. He turned, and picked up the mallet, and banged the watchbell, four fast, two slow. “Form patrol, west gate,” that signal meant. Even as he went bounding back down the stairs, the Regent himself was coming out into the great courtyard, with Dom Lyondri Aillard, the Cadet-Master, who was acting Commander of the Guard until Lord Alton returned.

“Form up a battle patrol, thirty men,” the Commander snapped. “Follow us at speed. Bring Tieran Moray.” Moray was the most experienced sergeant. By the time they reached the guards courtyard a nine-man patrol was already assembled, with a horse ready for the Commander. “AT the double!” Lyondri rapped out. “To the west gate!”

The guardsmen settled into the fast, steady trot that would get them through the sizable city to the gate in twenty minutes or so—fortunately it wasn’t far—and he impatiently reined in his horse to stay with the patrol. As they passed through the streets, people stared, and darted out of the way. Some called “Aldones guard you, vai comyn!” Others called out questions—“What is it?” “Is it sorcery?” “Is it the Aldarans, come to murder us all?”

In fact, by the time they reached the gate, a consensus seemed to be forming among the commoners that the evil Compact-forswearing Aldaran had made an alliance with Zandru himself, and had invaded the plains in force and were waiting with terrible weapons to destroy all in their path.

In the Telepath Tower of Comyn Castle, Javanne Syrtis sat staring into her matrix, using other-sight to watch the two sky-cars descend. A party of merchants were there, she noted with peripheral amusement and some consternation. The Regent would want a full report. She was lost in deep concentration, but her assistant Piedro Harryl-Alar received the Regent’s messenger. “Tell the Lord Regent that the Lady Javanne will report to him when she has seen all that she can.”

The marines, brought to quick order by the Sergeant-Major, an entire half-company (50) came marching down the ramps, one bearing the flag of Lavenrunz, the glittering golden rampant crowned leopard on a field of fluttering royal blue...the marines in their blue wool greatcoats, black boots like mirrors, officers and NCOs with their ceremonial swords glittering, rifles at regulation pose across the chest.
Von Falkenstein strode down after...the marine sergeant-major thundering "Present--Arms!!"

That was enough for Kaltry and everyone with him. Virtually as one being, they wheeled, and bolted. A couple of the Renunciates and guardsmen fell in around the Caravannaire, who was howling “NO, NO! The CHERVINE, get the beasts!” and trying to ride among them, grabbing a lead rein here or there. The packmen had taken to their heels, one Zandru-be-damned idiot had even unfastened his beast’s pack and thrown himself on its back, and the creature was bucking and snorting under the unaccustomed, ill-balanced load. They were a good way down the road in half a dozen breaths.

However, from the other direction, Lyondri Aillard, mounted on a fine Armida black, and flanked by the quick-trotting men of his patrol, were approaching rapidly. Behind them, only just in sight, Valentin’s patrol was marching at speed, with himself and Tieran Moray flanking them, mounted.

As they drew closer to the huge objects, Lyondri snapped a command, and the patrol shifted from at-speed to quick-march, swinging from their fast trot into a slower, but still brisk, marching-step. Their pikes were held at ‘ready-rest,’ and the hilt of Lyondri’s sword was against his palm, but not a man moved out of turn as they approached to within twenty strides of the things and, with an order from the Commander, drew up to a halt.

Aillard surveyed the strangers and their objects, and raised one long, slender, six-fingered hand, palm outward (the other hand hovered unobtrusively close to his dagger-sheath.) Surveying them closely, he waited for them to speak.

The Great Hall at Aldaran Castle was impressive even when empty and quiet. Huge, vaulted, galleried, with three separate fireplaces (each large enough to roast a whole chervine or even an oudrakh, and still leave room to spare,) its matrix-etched pillars of pale translucent stone glowed in the light of uncounted chandeliers, torches, and braziers. Banners hung from the gallery rails—Aldaran, of course, the largest, worked in fabulous spider-silk and picked out with an edging of silver and copper threads—but also the banners of the vassals and families who had intermarried with the Lords of the Mountains for time beyond mind.

The normal furnishings had been augmented by three vast trestle tables, two placed perpendicular to the third. They were all covered in pale woven and embroidered cloths, and set with a service of massive silver inlaid with intricate filigreed copper wire. The goblets were translucent glass, silver set with inlays of precious stones and copper, and at the Lord of Aldaran’s table, solid chased copper. In the gallery above and behind the massive double doors, musicians were playing a merry, lighthearted tune.

The family of Aldaran had intermarried with other mountain nobility, and Dom Gabriel himself had six children, as well as numerous fosterlings. Minor nobles, dependents, and the most important members of the Castle’s staff were also welcome guests at festive occasions, so the crowd was considerable, and included every age from grandparents to babies. Still, they were a remarkably orderly lot for a band of murderous mountain brigands. In one corner a group of six or eight little girls, aged from about eight to about twelve or thirteen, were practicing a dance for later. Groups of people were knotted about the ends of the tables, near the fireplaces, in the back corners of the room, talking and laughing.

As Alekandro entered, a smiling young woman approached him. “You are Dom Alekandro Ardais? Welcome to Aldaran, vai Dom. I am Marysa, my father will be here to welcome you shortly. For now, though, come and meet your fellow-travellers, who were so astonished to find you and your companion among the bandits’ baggage!” She chuckled, leading the way toward the largest of the three tables, that stood perpendicular to the other two and facing the great doors.

“Here is my brother Esteban, heir to Aldaran, and my soon-to-be-sister, Shavanni Storn, his promised wife. This is our good Captain Beltran, too. They found you on the trail, while they were traveling here with our other guests.”

Esteban nodded, and bowed slightly. “You are welcome to Aldaran indeed, my Lord, and I hope you and your companion are recovering from your injuries? This is Domna Margali, our leronis, t’was she and my promised wife who treated you.” The older woman he’d seen earlier in the sick room had changed from her workaday plaid overdress and homespun skirt, she was now gowned as befitted a leronis and comynara, but there was still a brisk twinkle in her eye. “Hold, Esteban, hold! The poor man’s head is still reeling, don’t set it spinning any the worse! Sit down, my Lord, and have some of this featherberry juice. We are an unruly lot… and the party hasn’t even really started yet!”

She poured from a pitcher into a copper goblet set with shimmering, amber-glowing stones, and handed it to him with an encouraging nod. Marysa made a little face at her, and said “All right, Margali, look after him. I should make certain the serving order is complete, and check to see if Ruyven needs anything.” With a smile to Alekandro, she went off to talk to a tall man who stood in a doorway near the back of the room, wearing a somewhat flour-bestrewn tunic.

It was then that Dom Gabriel entered. Without any special fanfare, but still the crowd parted for him, he stopped to murmur a word here, clasp a hand and clap a shoulder there, making his way to the big table, and the high-backed chair at it’s center. When he saw Alekandro, he smiled, and held out his hand. “I am Gabriel. You are come to Aldaran in a fortunate hour, guest of Aldaran, and the Gods bless us with your presence. It is long and long since we have had a visit—however accidental—from our lowland kin.” He spoke clearly, though not loudly, but a couple of men standing nearby turned to look, scrutinized Alekandro closely, and looked wonderingly at the Lord of the Mountains.

“I hope my people have made you and your companion more comfortable, Dom Alekandro. And though I say it in the old formula, your coming to Aldaran does occur at a particularly fortunate hour. There is news here that must be borne to the Plains, to the Lords of Comyn Council, by one whom they will trust. You and your companion are not our only guests here tonight.”

As he spoke, Ann’kas was giving the subtle signals that cleared the floor, sending the various guests to their tables. It could be clearly seen, now, that at one of the long side tables there were a great many empty places, and at the main table four chairs close to the Lord of the Mountains were not occupied. But there was little time to speculate about the nature of these “other guests” before they appeared at the great doors, metal buttons gleaming and uniforms dazzling.

Von Falkenstein stepped forward and bowed. "In the Name of Her Majesty, Empress Aurora, I greet you. We are here with peaceable intentions, to settle parts of this world." he raised a hand, solemnly, and pointed at the skies. "We come from above, and more of us will come."

In the banquet hall, Karen was impressed at the array before her. She bowed politely to her host and nodding discreetly to her followers went to where they were guided. She wore white kid gloves with ivory buttons, gold buttons on her jacket. It was deep blue, in vivid contrast to the leopard, crown and anchor insignias, and each button had a crowned leopard on it. She wore no sword or pistol, but had a bayonet in a polished and oiled sheath, its haft and pommel bright.

With the kindly contempt of a hundred generations of aristocracy, Aillard listened to the gibberish pouring out of the strangers’ mouth. The gesture at the skies both amused and puzzled him. They’d seen the fiery descent of the sky craft, so they certainly knew where these peculiar people had come from; but what were they trying to say—that there were more of them up there? Lyondri restrained himself from glancing upward.

“Tieran, find out if any of the men speak these peoples’ dialect, or whatever it is.”

They’d offered no hostile gesture. With something of a shrug, he let his hand fall, and nodded to the one that had talked. “Well, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re telling me or who you are or what you want.”

He surveyed them carefully. Only a few of them seemed to be armed, the rest brandished those peculiar clubs or tools or whatever they were across their chests. Still, there were a good many of them, and they obviously had strange and potent powers Lyondri had never heard of any matrix conveying.

Tieran reported, “None of the men understand them either, Commander.”

Aillard shrugged. “Well, I’m not a diplomat. Let’s see if Hastur and the leroni can make anything of this.” He looked at the one who had been doing the talking, pointed.

“You. You, come there,” he pointed to the City gate, “with me.” He pointed to himself. “Moray, dismount. Give the man your horse. We’ll take a patrol of four back with us, you stay here with the rest of the men and keep an eye on these strangers.”

“Yes, Commander.” The sergeant dismounted, led his horse up to the bottom of the ramp, gesturing for the man to mount, and offering his assistance.

Von Falkenstein was at first puzzled, then irritated to see that these folk seemed to be treating he and his party like a bunch of savages who'd washed up on shore. Furthermore, they were offering a horse to him! He turned slightly to Lieutenant Hackelgruber.
"Lieutenant..."
"My Colonel!" the young officer snapped to attention.
"Have the Vogelhund readied for our arrival into the city. We will go via our own progress."
"It appears to be a medieval city, my Colonel--what if the streets are too narrow?" suggested the officer.
"Have you never seen Mirenburg back home? There will at least be an avenue for progress--and this is a progress in more ways than one! Ready it at once."
The Vogelhund was already prepared...it was a low slung twelve ton metal beast, rumbling off the ramp of the shuttle, eight wheels easily grabbing purchase on the terrain. Its own ramp descended with a groan of hydraulics, and Colonel Falkenstein waved a hand in the direction of the city to the man who seemed to lead the armed party. "I shall see you there." he said with a slight smile and a bow, and walked up the ramp.

Aillard watched as the strangers disregarded his invitation and prepared a device that looked dangerous, even deadly. Its very weight would damage the surface of a road designed to carry horse, chervine, and foot traffic. He turned to where Valentin’s larger patrol was approaching, up the road.

"Guard!" he barked. "In the road there: Halt them!"

At a run, Valentin’s patrol maneuvered and took stance in the road, the front two ranks on one knee, pikes levelled at an outward angle, the rear ranks standing, pikes forward. The men with Aillard and Moray wheeled sharply, maneuvered, and joined them.

Aillard rode to the van, dismounting, Moray and Valentin joining him, they stood in fighting stance, swords drawn. His laran was nothing impressive, but he had sufficient telepathy to reach the leronis whom he knew must be attending closely to this matter by now.

'Lady Javanne, urgently relay to Lord Hastur: Shut Thendara's gates and call a general mobilization of the Guard--whoever and whatever these people and things are, they appear both dangerous and barbaric. They cannot understand the simplest communication gestures. While few of them appear armed, they are supplied with some kind of sorcery that moves gigantic metal vehicles at their will both in the air and on the ground. They may have other sorcery as well--perhaps you should alert the Towers. he tried to cram as much information in as possible; he fully expected to die if the hostile strangers' sorcerous contraption was a weapon.

'And, Javanne--' he added, as the leronis relayed acknowledgement, '--tell Vanora... tell her... all that I would have her know.'


In the shielded room of Thendara Castle where she sat, 'watching' the encounter through eyes other than physical, Javanne was urgently relaying the first part of Lyondri's message to Marcus Hastur and Deran Syrtis of the Guards.

The Guards were pulling away from the Gate, and the massive, five-layer, stone-reinforced gates were already closing--substantial enough to be seen from where Lyondri and his men were preparing to die. Distantly, alarm bells could be heard ringing through the city.

(brief OOC: Much of what I post next at the banquet in Aldaran will depend on Alton, so I'm waiting for his post. Lav/Cottman, did you get the TG I sent you re: a Lav char?)

Lirielle, Arilinn rikhi

The sorrow at parting company with Jeran faded quickly once he'd vanished through the tower gate, into the city beyond. Lirielle could simply not retain any darker emotion when faced with the elation of her current success. The Keeper of Arilinn had chosen her for training!
Arilinn! The tower viewed highest even as far as the Hellers themselves.
Implications were that she would be Keeper of the tower herself one day, Caitlyn's heir and it was something she could not help but feel great pride in.

It proved impossible to sleep that night, though when Elanna had briefly joined her and spoken at length, she'd found a subdued Lirielle. Still shamed by the knowledge that this woman knew every dark thought, every jealously guarded secret; she'd said little.
After, alone within her tower, she'd dreamed of a future when she wore the red robes of a Keeper and stood at the centre of the relay chamber, energies flying round her like winds tearing through the Kilghards.

Memories kept stirring up, again and again. Leaving Lirielle wondering if it was an after-effect of the deep monitoring.

Arbella storming out on Melor. Lirielle still wondered why the young Arnad Lanart-Hastur had found so little favour in the Lord Alton's eyes, when Arbella had already so obviously given her heart to him. Hasturs of Mariposa, Arnad did not lack for wealth or lineage. A puzzle she'd not yet managed to resolve, even if she contemplated Arnad being an unacknowledged nedestro son of Lord Alton; it only raised more questions.

Other memories passed, experienced as though she were there once more; within the moment, breathing it in. And coming more often, the image that she'd determined she would ask about it as soon as Elanna visited her once more.
Her mother's face gazing down at her.

When dawn spilled through her window, it passed through the open doorway of her chambers and into the common hall to where she still sat. Rays struck through Lirielle's blood-hued hair and made a corona of spun copper.
In that moment a flicker touched the edges of Lirielle's newfound senses and she froze, the experience too brief to examine. What is it? What is it?

Had Lirielle already been keyed to her own matrix jewel, the sensation would have been more familiar and affected her far less. As it was, with no jewel of her own to counter the allure of the newly woken lattice, Lirielle felt the subtle hint of foreknowledge carried by intuition that something had altered.

Keyed the trap lattice pulsed unnaturally, dimmed lights playing through the smoky blue depths; had there been no discoloration the bright flickers would have betrayed the strange turn of events. As it was it passed unnoticed, only Lirielle felt the sudden change, but didn't know enough to realise what it meant.


Jeran, Alton Heir

After parting ways with Caitlyn of Arilinn, Jeran had fallen back into the silence that had marked his passage from Armida. Though this time, it was an air of contemplation and not dire depression that haunted the Alton heir.

"Elanna," he'd said on their parting. "I have not words for the debt I owe Arilinn Tower. Such skill as can heal the heartsick must know few bounds. It should be that all Darkover might benefit from such skill, not merely those who find way to the tower."

Now he wondered again; if the leroni of Arilinn could heal the heartsick, what more could they do for the people of the world?
It was no secret that there was a growing malaise at the heart of Darkovan society. Settlements once prosperous had dwindled and died within his lifetime. Could the skills in the towers not be put to better use?

"I will return for the long winter, learn whatever the tower is willing to impart," he'd promised not only the monitor, but Lirielle as well. "My laran has never been so vital. Could I in my grief have discovered a way to tap into the Alton donas to a degree I have not before?" Had the subtle nod from Elanna indicated agreement, or merely reflected her lack of answer to his question?

He stifled a laugh. So ready to question the wisdom of the one you've only just finished praising Jeran?
He gazed up at the relatively open skies, clouds fringing the horizon like violet curtains ready to draw across the heavens without notice.
He enjoyed the sun on his face, the warmth of it, before lowering his head to look ahead. Open lands stretched before them and again he wondered if the towers could not be the source of succour for that which ailed Darkover.

Should we not have some apparatus akin to the guard set up for the towers? His speculation brought his brows together. It would ease the heavy burdens on the towers in the long term, allow the knowledge to seep throughout the spectrum of Darkovan society and the Comyn would not have arguments against a year or two of service to the towers.

As an Alton he had skills enough in soldiery to insure no question of his worth when it came time for Lord Alton to hand down Command of the Guard to his heir. But Jeran found himself so intrigued by his speculation that he could almost see himself changing allegiance to a Leronyn Cori'yo and had a sudden sense that neither need be denied him.
He stifled a gasp, a shimmer of precognition revealing his hand in beginning such a society and resolved to mention his thoughts to Caitlyn when they met up again.

Thoughts of Lirielle came surging high suddenly and he recalled their tearful parting. She'd quickly recovered her poise, even as he'd gazed back at her she'd painted a smile on her lips.
Yet he was still concerned and tentatively focusing his mind, he reached for her.

In the overworld, black glass-like eyes observed the sudden blue flash that rippled up in waves through Arilinn Tower. The lattice keyed to Lirielle could not remain invisible while active, carried the familiar taste of a trap-matrix to the otherworldly senses of the sending. Though the crow form ruffled feathers of shadow, perhaps in surprise, it maintained its watch over Arilinn.

Jeran blinked in surprise, wondered at the strange taste of the barrier his mind had encountered. Did Lirielle already begin some arcane training that shielded her from his mental touch?
Unfamiliar with the flavour of the mental wall that still clung to the edges of his mind, Jeran speculated only briefly on its nature. The Towers are as alien as the dwellings of the forge-folk, any fool knows.
He decided to wait until he'd arrived in Thendara, to reach for Lirielle again then.

A sudden thunder and the blaze of light ahead, in the plains before Thendara Jeran judged, swept away all thoughts. Leaning into his saddle, he urged his stallion into a gallop knowing only that he must reach the city and soon.


Iolanthe, Botanist

Iolanthe had found the journey down to Darkover difficult; not only the turmoil of the heavy winds unsettled her but the thought of what awaited. Everything was about to change, for Darkover for Iolanthe Pfrommer and for every single colonist come to this strange and beautiful world.

It was only when she found herself outside of the shuttle, breathing in the exotic air with its unique taste filling her; expelling vaporous air into the frigid morning that she found her tongue.

"Anna, we're here. We're on Darkover." Were it not for the luggage that she refused to leave behind, she'd have been leaping excitedly into the air. But she didn't know when she'd be turning her back on the civilisation that had burdened her; tried to squeeze her into an ill-shaped existence where she was not allowed to be herself. The few things she treasured were crammed into the bags she now gripped tightly in her gloved hands.

But her joy quickly faded as the Darkovan guards met up with Von Falkenstein and Iolanthe felt them both struggle to assert themselves. There was no desire for understanding, both men seemed determined only to establish supremacy.

"Will there be blood spilled so soon?" She gazed at Anna, trying to read her friend's thoughts. Wondered at her own loyalties. Did they lie with her fellow colonists or the Darkovans whom she so longed to embrace? They'll not let me speak for them. I'm a civilian and there is no reason to believe that I can understand the strange words of these people. She narrowed her eyes, gazed through the barrier of marines that formed a phalanx around the unarmed colonists; found Von Falkenstein and knew that she was right.
Her words would fall on deaf ears. There was only one future here, opening before her mind's eye like a crimson shroud; war.
But there is a way to forestall it. An idea half formed, emerged as though it had lain waiting this particular moment and she knew that the answer was already nearby…


Raineach, Keeper of Neskaya

When she woke, Raineach knew that her time had come.
The tower still slept round her, wearing work had continued long into the depths of the night and there would be none awake but for one who watched the screens.

Avoiding this sole guardian proved no difficulty for Raineach and she reached the relay screens without being seen. Now dark and inactive, they reflected the vivid hue of her crimson robes as though sunrise had crested the mountains early.

"It is time," Raineach murmured to herself. "Everything is aligned against the old towers, against the Comyn Council. I mustn't let this moment slip through my grasp." Steeling herself for the trials ahead, the Keeper of Neskaya reached into the great screens of her tower and quickened them to life.

Power strummed through the air and in the chambers below, her activity was sensed by a single mind. Taking no time to explain herself, Raineach reached towards Thendara and searched for a particular matrix screen within Comyn Tower. It was another secret, unused since the age of chaos.
She funnelled power into it and the dormant screen flickered to life in its dusty chamber.

A soft sigh and the Keeper poured her will into the distant screen and vanished from Neskaya instantly.

***

In Comyn Tower the sudden presence of Raineach Lanart was announced by a gale of laran that ripped through the tower and ebbed into the castle itself. Now before a matrix screen that she'd known only through her journey's into the overworld and travels to Darkover's troubled past; Raineach stilled her trembling and reinforced her mental shields.

"There will be war between you and I, till my will is done." Lifting her robes least they trail through the dust and cobwebs that shifted in the wake of her passing, Raineach left the chamber a tight smile firmly fixed on her face.

Alekandro, Captain of the Guard

It had startled Alek to find so many of his questions answered by his hosts without prompting. It was certain now that they were not behind the troubles that had befallen he and his bredu. Yet, subtly though the focus had shifted, Alekandro began to understand that greater questions were being raised.

Before he'd been able to formulate a polite enquiry, the other guests of Aldaran arrived within the great Hall. Instantly as with one who'd lived a life in the shadow of Comyn Council, he tabulated the political ramifications of the Mountain Lord's guests and paled.
Where do they hail from? But he shook the question aside. It was not the most important question to ask. Does Aldaran understand? Has the domain been too long outside of the Council? Aldones! Why me?

"My Lord Aldaran, somehow I do not think that time is on our side," he glanced at his host then nodded at the strangers. "There is a delicate balance between the domains, even Aldaran must play to this balance. But I fear the scales have just been overturned."

A chill crept through Alekandro and he shivered. Aldones, it can't be premonition! The raivannin still holds me in thrall! A tiny plea formed itself, a prayer. But only time would tell if the gods listened and by then, it would be too late.

The Lord of Aldaran nodded to Alekandro’s remark, even as he rose to greet the Lav’runz’i guests. Karen and her officers he seated at the main table, with Shavanni and Esteban at hand to translate, first introducing them to the rest of those seated at the table.

“My Lord Aldaran says, ‘Please do not worry about trying to remember every name,’” Shavanni told them, with a twinkle in her eye. “And I am at your service to remind you, if needed. It is a large household, and—” she chuckled “—casual in its ways, even on formal occasions.” This was said as a couple of the younger children slid under the trestle table, chasing a fallen tidbit, and had to be hauled back into their seats by the adults and reminded sternly about manners.

Large the household might be, and in some respects casual, but the attention to the guests’ comfort—and their stomachs—lacked nothing. An array of dishes ranging from simple, hearty dishes to elaborately spiced subtleties was offered, and a succession of musicians, dancers, and jonglers provided entertainment.

As the sweets were being passed, Dom Gabriel stood, and the room grew quiet.

“Kinsmen, friends, and guests of Aldaran, this night we welcome the return of my son and heir Esteban, and his promised wife Shavanni Storn. But as many of you already know, we welcome guests among us, as well. I give you Alekandro Ardais, Captain of the Alton Guard, guest of Aldaran.”

There were cries of “Welcome, welcome a hundred thousand!” in the old mountain tongue, but many were silent from sheer astonishment. And some, from malice toward the lowland hali’iymn, in spite of their Lord’s strange aberration in welcoming him as guest.

But the cries were numerous and sincere when Dom Gabriel introduced (with a few whispered prompts from Shavanni,) the Countess Karen von Hohenloe of Beowulf Lav’runz, and Liuetenant Hochswender, and the others. When the “Welcomes!” had died down, the Lord of Aldaran continued.

“Among the Lav’runz’i guests traveled one who will travel no more. We honor also tonight Trooper Kemmerich, who came from Lav’runz to die under Aldaran’s banner.” He turned, and bowed to Karen, holding the bow for three beats. “Your sworn man will not be forgotten in Aldaran, Domna von Hohenloe.”

“In memory the honored dead yet live!” at Dom Gabriel’s nod, Esteban raised the old shout, in the ancient mountain dialect.

“As guests of Aldaran, it is my pleasure and my honor to gift you with the fruits of Aldaran.” He nodded to Ann’kas Darriell, and the big doors at the end of the Hall were thrown open yet again, and a procession of men and women in the Aldaran livery brought the Lord of Aldaran’s guest-gifts.

For Alekandro, there was a complete outfit of clothing, warmly lined and of quality fit for the Lord of Aldaran himself, though it was in neutral but splendid colors of russet and green and brilliant blue, trimmed with copper threads, and a similar outfit for Rohan.

For the Lavenrunzians the Lord of Aldaran’s store-rooms had been ransacked to some purpose. Cloaks, lined with rabbithorn-fur but trimmed with marl around the collars, for each soldier in the company, as well as sturdy, attractively-tooled packs such as the mountain Guardsmen carried on long journeys—lightweight, waterproof, and with an array of intricate strapping that allowed them to be converted from saddle-packs to shoulder-packs. Each soldier also received an exquisitely turned wooden goblet of flamboyantly-grained, reddish wood, inlaid with the Aldaran eagle in copper wire. For the officers, the gifts included rich velvet cloaks lined with marl-fur, silver-and-copper goblets, heavy copper-chased bracelets for the men and an intricately filigreed necklace set with gleaming green stones for Karen. Each item would have rated museum quality for workmanship and beauty on Earth.

When Dom Gabriel had finished presenting the guest-gifts, he glanced at Esteban, and gave a slight nod. The heir to Aldaran rose, and made a gesture to the coridom. Another retainer entered, bearing a shield, of ancient workmanship and exquisite design, inlaid with copper and colored stone, bearing the eagle device of Aldaran. He went to stand before Lieutenant Hochswender.

“When we encountered bandits,” Esteban said, bowing gravely to the Lieutenant, “this man from Lav’runz, Lieutenant Hochswender, saved my life. No man can truly pay such a debt, but I can make acknowledgement of it. Lieutenant, in that time you acted as a shield to the heir to Aldaran; in token of my debt I would have you accept this shield of Aldaran, an heirloom of our house.”

The retainer proffered the shield to Hochswender. It was a lovely thing, ancient and intricate—but sturdy and serviceable as well; at least for a man facing sword strokes, rather than bullets or energy weapons.

<post deleted>

Outside Thendara

Von Falkenstein's eyes widened a moment, then he whirled into action.
"My God--they're hostile! Prepare for action!"
The Sergeant-Major began to bellow orders; the junior NCOs and officers scrambled into position, while nearly all the civilians stampeded for the ramp of the shuttle, forced into order by the senior scientists, who snapped instructions to be calm...
The marines outside the Vogelhund immediately moved for cover, as if expecting an ambush from any direction. The Vogelhund itself swiveled its 25mm autocannon to cover the better part of the native
troops; von Falkenstein narrowed his eyes, observing their activity.
"Are we in contact with the air element?" he asked his RTO.
"Yes, Excellency."
Turning to the small staff present, he liked what he saw...an odd thrill went through him. This had suddenly ceased to be exploration and had become simply another battlefield. Kristoff, the Forward Observer,
was looking through her rangefinder for targets of opportunity.
"Should we fire a warning shot, Excellency?" offered Lieutenant Offenbach dubiously. He was one of the Space Agency officers, the ground liason, a very efficient man, no doubt, but hardly an Imperial Marine
or an expert in such matters in Von Falkenstein's view of things.
"We'll wait to see what they do, now that it's clear we're ready."
And they were: marines were aiming grenade launchers, assault weapons, and had set up two light mortars as well.
Swords against that! These natives would have to be pig-ignorant to be defiant now...he wondered what had upset them.
Hackelgruber was inside the Vogelhund, watching the command screens. Unbeknownst to the natives, he could see the city itself, see people running in panic, see the movements of the guardsmen, because of his connection to the satellite and the air units. He felt a little queasy; it reminded him uncomfortably of a riot he'd had to put down. It all smacked of murder, if it went off, and he wondered if he could find some way to tell the old man...

In the Hall of Aldaran

Hochswender flushed as only a fair skinned person can at the gift, and his bow, Lavenrunzian fashions, snap-click was as one truly moved.
Through his commanding officer and lady Shavanni, he attempted to convey his words:
"Sir, I am truly honoured by your gift, when none was expected, and would have been satisfied to have done my duty. I will cherish this esteemable heirloom and will not forget that we fought together." Hochswender was fascinated by it; it called to something ancient in his blood, that ages before he had found himself plotting field of fire trajectories had sent his ancestors across the globe in small ships against foes and deadly seas.
As he spoke, the others discreetly admired their gifts, the exquisite quality of the fur and the workmanship.
Karen rose and said, using her laran to convey her words, and trusting Shavanni to fill in the rest, "Lord Aldaran, your hospitality will be famed among our people. It is my fond hope that a friendship will be built here between our two nations." she raised her goblet and said, "I do not know if it is the custom among your people, but it is among us, to drink to the health of the host in gratitude." she exclaimed loudly, "Aldaran! Wassail!"
"Aldaran, Drinc Hal!" responded her followers.
Doctor Kotzebue hoped they would not toast endlessly like Tarasovkans. With the high altitude, he was sure he'd find himself under the table and regretting it the next day...

The thirty-odd Guardsmen and three officers remained quite stationary, focused on the huge, rolling, sorcerous thing that had already damaged the road surface. Part of it began to whirl around; something that looked like an evil snout faced them, but they were men of courage, they remained steadfast, pikes and swords leveled.

When large numbers of the strangers fled up the ramp, Tieran came to a sudden, intuitive conclusion. He murmured to Lyondri, “Commander, they think we are going to attack them! They are afraid of us! That may be what the meaning of all their sorcery is.”

Aillard considered this, his eyes riveted on the man who was shouting commands. It was possible, although the man he was watching did not look afraid. Still, it could be the case.

“Very well, I will make one more attempt to communicate. If I am slain, however…” He did not glance at Valentin, merely a mental touch, but the young man nodded grimly. “We will avenge you, kinsman.”

Tieran restrained a sigh. These strangers made him very, very nervous, and he did not think that “taking vengeance” would be a good thing to attempt, should the Commander’s attempt fail. ‘Son of Light, guide and guard us…’ he thought.

Lowering his sword, slowly, eyeing the man who had shouted commands with a mixture of carefully assumed patience and suspicion, Lyondri Aillard strode forward. With the hand that was not holding his sword, he pointed at the heavy rolling object, and then at the cracking road surface.

“No!” he said, very slowly and clearly, shaking his head sternly. He repeated himself, as to a child or an idiot, pointing at the thing.

“No!”

Then he stepped back one step, and, again with the hand that did not hold his sword, he pointed to the City, then to the man who had shouted the commands.

“You,” he said, clearly, “There!”

He pointed to the thing again.

“No!”

Then he pointed to the horses, standing quietly near the poised guardsmen.

“Yes!” he said clearly, nodding his head in an exaggerated gesture.

“You!” (points to man.)

“There!” (points to City)

“Horse!” (points to horse, nods exaggeratedly.)

“NO!” (points to thing, shakes head exaggeratedly.)

Then he waited. Just how stupid were these barbarians?

Lieutenant Hackelgruber could clearly see the gestures. He contacted the Colonel via his radio headset.
"Colonel--I think that fellow is saying that we shouldn't take the APC into the city."
Colonel von Falkenstein looked coldly at the man. He could see this, certainly--but he found the manner definitely insulting...also, he still felt a sense of fury, a desire to launch a sucessful attack...but he could not do that, of course, on the face of things...
"Lieutenant, you will remain here in command of the Vogelhund and part of the landing party. I will go into the city with a small escort. If I do not make contact with you in half an hour, you are to consider that the natives are definitely hostile."
He deliberately turned to the Sergeant-Major of Marines.
"Sergeant-Major. Let us have the landing party alert but stand them down."
"Yes, my Colonel."
Von Falkenstein turned back and nodded to the fellow addressing him. Looked like a Wagnerian extra. He said, "I want the best riders standing forward."
There were not too many of these--neither the Imperial Marines nor the Imperial Space Agency really sought horsemanship as a prerequisite skill--but there were enough, a few who had been reared in the country or enjoyed riding as a hobby. Von Falkenstein himself was used to riding as a hunter and sat extremely well, though he insisted on checking the saddles before they went to set out.

When Lyondri Aillard realized that the stranger wanted to bring more than just a single paxman to Thendara with him, he gestured for the men to bring Tieran’s and Valentin’s horses, as well as his own.

He selected four men of his own patrol to accompany him; not because he feared the strangers (a fact Tieran knew and worried about—but the Cadet Master was not the kind of man who received contrary opinions tolerantly, so he kept his doubts to himself,) but in order to escort the party with proper ceremony.

He did not intend to hurry; they had only the three horses that he, Tieran and Valentin had ridden, and while those were reasonably fresh, the men had taken the trip out from the City at a fast trot and would appreciate a more decorous, albeit still brisk, pace returning.

“Just keep an eye on them,” he told Valentin mentally. “If they appear to be doing anything dangerous, the leronis, Lady Javanne, must know and alert Hastur immediately.”

With an encouraging nod to the stranger’s leader, he gestured toward the City, barked a command to his own escort to flank the horses, and started back to Thendara.

Shavanni did her best to convey the sense of Lieutenant Hochswender’s words and the Lav’runz’i toasts, but the expressions and gestures of Karen’s party were evocative enough for the Aldaran guests to understand their appreciation.

Toasting was not a custom in the mountains, although “pledging health”—a similar, but less repetitive ritual—was, so they were able to return the gesture with thanks as the final subtleties were left on the table and the center of the floor cleared for dancing. Any time you got a critical mass (say, three or more) of Darkovans together with a large flat space and music, there would be dancing, and the people of the Hellers had any number of local dances that even Alekandro had only heard of, not seen. Of course, they had the standard dances as well, and exhibition-style dances including the sword dance, executed with fierce passion and surpassing skill by Esteban to wild applause and raucous mock battle-cries.

There were single-gender ring dances, and set dances of all types and formations, varying in tone from the sedate to the exhilarating (and some were even, in a surprising way, quite seductive,) but very few “couples” dances, and the first of those was not played until after the children had been sent to bed. Too, only married or handfasted couples danced the couples dances, which were generally tamer even than some of the set dances. It could be clearly observed that most of the unmarried, unhandfasted girls generally danced only with other girls as partners or with men of their immediate families. In a few of the more sedate set-dances, young people whose families were obviously in the process of negotiating an alliance permitted the youngsters to dance as partners, under watchful eyes. To one who was accustomed to the lowland dancing in couples, it would seem quaintly prudish, in spite of the blithe willingness of the girls to meet the eyes of any male to whom they happened to be speaking.

Early on, the musicians struck up a very simple ring-dance twice in a row, and the second time, some of the Aldaran guardsmen who had shared the arduous journey with the Lav’runz’i made gestures inviting these honored guests of Aldaran to join in. Shavanni told Karen, “It is not too fast a dance, and you will pick it up quickly just by watching your neighbor—come!” She urged her friend to join her in one of the nearby forming women’s circles.

Dom Gabriel did little dancing, once joining Esteban and another guardsman in a surprisingly athletic, vigorous exhibition dance that involved complex and intricate mock-fighting motions, but for the most part sitting and watching his guests, and conversing easily with those who approached him. Finally, he made his way to Alekandro’s side again.

“On the morrow, if you are well and rested, kinsman, come to my study and I will give you all of the information I have about these strange visitors. It should get to Comyn Council, as soon as may be.”

The party broke up not too late, for everyone who knew about it was eagerly anticipating the advent of the rest of the Lav’runz’i “from the sky” the next morning—a miracle of sorcery that they were anticipating with considerable excitement.

Aldaran

The Lavenrunzians very much liked the sword dances, which impressed them as being both faintly barbaric but also intricate and stirring. Doctor Kotzebue frowned; it reminded him of something...ah, yes...a similar thing he had seen once on Iansisle. He knew, of course, that similarities of custom could be deceiving, but he was excited for different reasons, and found himself counting the rhythms, memorizing the gestures. If only he had access to a computer!
Karen for her part found the wild music so unlike the rather formal and ritualized dances of Lavenrunz that she without thinking was swept up in it--she was flushed and laughing at the end, holding Shavanni's hand warmly, surprised by the affection she felt--but then not surprised. They had shared danger together, they had travelled long, and were eager to know more of one another's mysterious cultures--but it had been so long since she had wanted a friend for friendship's sake. These thoughts troubled her as she went to bed. The music had been so strange too, it made her think of the cries of animals and the lonely moaning of the wind in the mountains, of laughter and of weeping.
She almost regretted that the dropship would arrive tomorrow.

The following day...

Erich Schauss and Claudia Muller were doing last minute flight checks on the Beowulf. Their Jotun class dropship was a VTOL craft that could enter and depart a planetary surface; it had a crew of four (themselves and a radio communications operative and a gunner) and could carry as many as 60. This would be the first time they had landed on an alien planet with atmosphere, and they were both excited.
Their routine complete, confirming with the rest of their crew, they waited until they were down in the elevator and the airlock had closed above them. The power plant was warming up, and all guidance and weapons systems were go.
As it left the Beowulf it resembled an upside down paper airplane, with a rounded cylindrical bulge in the middle. Flung, as it were, from the starship, it swooped down into the atmosphere of what the crew knew to be Cottman IV.
Within a mere few hours it was in atmosphere, and was hooking up to a refuelling vehicle, then on its way to Aldaran.
During the trip they were familiarizing themselves with flying in atmosphere again, though at times they had the autopilot on and alternated napping or playing games. One was always alert, because you never knew, though each privately thought that was so much scheiss, since any enemies here would apparently be fur clad barbarians waving spears and swords.
It was flying the mountains that was tricky, unexpected powerful gusts of wind and avalanches sending whirling clouds of snow even in cloudless areas that made it a serious challenge. Schauss commented, "This is a beast. This chain is a real beast..."
"But we're proving what she can do..." muttered Muller, and there was no more conversation. The mountains were like huge stoney teeth sticking out of the ground, drooling rivers and half frozen waterfalls. The idea that people lived down there was daunting.
The castle was however like reaching a racing marker: they gave a bit of a cheer and then radioed the Captain that they were coming in. In about five minutes the plane began to slow down, the engines screaming as it did, and began to hover, looking for a place to land.

Inside the castle, Captain von Hohenloe had informed Shavanni that the dropship would arrive in an hour, and then, five minutes to arrival, gave her the update with a slight smile, nodding to her RTO. She noticed the chaplain muttering a prayer. Well he should: she knew that the flight would probably actually be dangerous. She had had Hochswender explain that a courtyard would have to be cleared, and how big it would have to be in order to have the plane land--at least a hundred and twenty feet.


Thendara

Von Falkenstein rode straight backed into the city, and nodded to Lieutenant Beckendorff, who unfurled the banner, gold leopard rampant and crowned, on a field of blue as they went into the city.
It was surprisingly clean, he thought, for a den of barbarians. But then it was fairly cold, and they probably burned dung for fuel. One thing bothered him: how on Earth was he going to communicate with them?

Iolanthe

As Iolanthe watched Von Falkenstein and his men ride away, she puzzled over the sudden change that had so quickly altered the charged atmosphere between the two opposing forces.

Had Von Falkenstein glimpsed the hidden abilities that lay within the Darkovan forces? Her brows furrowed as she considered the possibility that this stark and authoritarian figure bore within him some repressed psi-traits. But quickly dismissed the idea. No, he's concerned about how it will reflect on him. He's still looking for a solid reason for the imperialism that drove this mission from the start.

She couldn't allow Von Falkenstein to blunder his way into war. Not until he understood how dangerous it could be for the colonists. Then I'll wash my hands of him.
She turned towards Arilinn, the tower too distant to be anything more than a beacon in her mind. Jeran had been there and now he was close to coming upon them. She watched the horizon.

"Come soon Jeran, come soon," she whispered and did not realise that she'd spoken not in her native tongue, but fluently in the casta of her New World.


Jeran

His stallion bore a thin film of sweat, muscles still working furiously as Jeran urged it onwards towards the distant city of Thendara.
They'd closed on the position he'd mentally assigned to the fallen blaze of light and thunder and all that lay between horse and rider now was the last few hillocks until they broke through into the plains before Thendara.

He knew that the two guards had long ago fallen far behind him, some part of Jeran whispering that this was unwise. Do not be quick to ride into danger without a sword at your back. These were the words of the Commander of the Guard; advise from Lord Alton to his son and heir. Yet Jeran ignored them now, driven on towards the unknown. In the wind, it seemed someone spoke his name; summoned him.

The land rushed past, his stallion tackled the final barrier between them and his destination and Jeran felt the air expelled from him forcefully as though from a blow.

"What in Zandru's hells is that thing?"

With none to answer him, Jeran spent not a moment more on puzzle that was the shuttle; eyes focusing instead on the strangers and the Thendara Guard ranged before them.

Some of the strangers were soldiers. Jeran was heir to the family most closely associated with military prowess, trained since before he'd even been able to hold his first blade his perceptive gaze instantly recognised the attention of a well disciplined force. They lie between me and the Thendara Guard!
The realisation came swiftly, but the unrelenting pace of stallion and rider closed the distance more rapidly.
And suddenly from among the civilian group of the strangers a woman, weighted down by luggage and concealed in a thick winter cloak stumbled towards him; shouting out his name.

"Jeran, carya," she cried, turning all eyes on him. Internally he cursed her timing, but her voice was instantly recognisable and her knew her for the stranger he'd glimpsed in his bathtub vision. Even now, as his stallion rushed forward and he calculated the distance between safety and falling on the stranger's side of the informal boundary; still Jeran Alton blushed. "There is no time. Von Falkenstein has already ridden ahead!"

Her words meant nothing to him, yet he glimpsed the urgency; felt her fears and reached out to her as stallion, rider and overburdened woman intersected. How fluent her casta, how beautiful her accent. He recalled her delicate features, saw them again in an instant as Iolanthe looked up at him; held up a small, pale hand.

Grasping her, the effort to pull her weighted body up onto the horse giving birth to a loud shout; muscles aching, tearing at the joints.
"Iolanthe," he sighed as she slammed into his back; horsed by some miracle and struggled to reign in the stallion with one hand as the stranger's soldiers turned furiously on him.
Thendara Guards bristled, called out to him and his breath caught in his throat.


Raineach

As the light from the matrix screen faded the chamber into which she had been transported fell into darkness.
The many covered objects and furnishings had made of the place a maze that seemed to drive the Keeper back to her point of origin again and again.
Even with the brilliant glow of her own matrix to light the way, Raineach found the unfamiliar room unnavigable.

She'd stirred up enough dust in her search and had a suspicion that her red robes were now closer to a dull colour like that of fresh potter's clay. And if her arrival had not been explosive enough to ring through Comyn tower then her sneezes certainly would bring her to their attention.
Why didn't I plan this part out ahead? She shook her head, knowing that time had played a part in that. She'd simply need to arrive now, when everything was in place. There will be no second chance.
Her urgency increased.

She was tired as well. The effort to use the screen so, unaided, had drained her. Keeping her own matrix stone flaring in the darkness was already a chore that required so much of her concentration that it had become partially responsible for her inability to find the door that lead away from the secreted chamber.

In exasperation Raineach tried a turn she was certain she'd not yet attempted and was startled when she suddenly came to the exit that had proven so elusive.
"At last," she scowled. Reached to open it and -

Alekandro

Alekandro found the jubilant mood of the great keep of Lord Aldaran difficult to share. The seventh domain had grown too distant from its lowland kin and understood very little of the laran heritage that time had almost buried.

"Violence and terror," he sighed. Glanced at Rohan who understood his current sombre mood as no other within Aldaran seemed able to. "This smells like an age of great matrices Ro. Another age of chaos?" Our final descent into madness?
He wore the garments that Lord Aldaran had so graciously gifted him; felt somehow very distant from his own home. It was almost as if the strangers from the stars had turned the mountains into a different world. Not Darkover, not the world he knew.


Melor

Lord Alton was within his study when the Corridom of Armida, Rascard Tyall entered discreetly and drew his mind away from dark thoughts.
Aldaran and the mountains seemed to weigh heavily on Armida despite the brightness of the day.

"Yes Rascard?" He noted the flustered air of the Corridom and frowned, wondered what news had come to so unsettle the man. But the Corridom was not to be given the chance to speak, stepping into the chamber in her Keeper's red robes, the Lady Caitlyn of Arilinn entered and made Rascard's reason for unease plain.

"Leave us," Melor instructed his man. "You honour my house vai Leronis," he said to Cailtyn as the doors of the study were closed behind Rascard. The chamber seemed to darken and Lord Alton knew that his day was about to get worse. "You bring me grace." He spoke the ritual words, but his tone was dry and empty. Caitlyn had come to Armida bringing anything but grace, of that Melor was certain.

Desia came to Lirielle on the morning of her second day in the rikhi’s quarters. The girl was eager to begin her training, it was clear. Good. Desia didn’t want her scared. The new training as she had designed it required some of the same disciplines as the old training, but not all. And for every discipline required, there was a solid, explainable, technical reason. No mindless superstition!

She brought Lirielle into the room all three of the rikhi apartments opened on to; a room that served as schoolroom and lounge.

What was the best way to begin, she wondered? She hadn’t thought of that, when she was carefully outlining every technical aspect of training. Well, just start, she supposed. She took a breath, and looked steadily into Lirielle’s face as she talked.

“To be a Keeper conveys great power, but it also carries great responsibility. The greatest responsibility, perhaps, on all of Darkover is borne by the Keepers of Darkover.”

“This is no light or empty or symbolic responsibility, Lirielle. It is bound up in the nature of laran, itself. Have you ever thought, really thought about the implications of laran?”

“We take it lightly, sometimes, we Comyn, because we are accustomed to it, accustomed to its existence and its use; even those who have little beyond the ability to share articulate thoughts with another matrix-bearer nearby. For many, perhaps most, that is all it is. A convenient way to communicate without moving one’s mouth. A few useful healing techniques. After-dinner tricks, spinning a plate or slyly moving a companion’s wine-cup away from where their hand expects to find it. The special services available to anyone who cares to go to a Tower, to send news of the birth of an heir to distant kinfolk, or to have a little lock-matrix keyed, or to do any of a number of small things.”

Lirielle nodded. All this she knew, all of these things she was familiar with.

“But think about it. Suppose the same ‘touch’ that you used to move that wine-cup, you used to reach into a man’s neck, and sever his spinal cord. Suppose rather than listening to the offered thoughts of a companion or kinsman, you deliberately probed to hear the plans of a merchant about what goods he planned to buy—and you used that knowledge to buy them before he did, and sell them to him at your price? Suppose you used your laran to put thoughts of terror and fear and chaos into another mind, until that person went mad?”

The girl was looking confused, and a little outraged.

“Nobody does that, you will say. But why? Why, Lirielle? It’s unthinkable, yes? Yet here we are, thinking and talking about it.”

“The only reason it is unthinkable is because we, the telepaths of Darkover, made compact centuries ago to make it unthinkable.”

“And nothing, nothing at all, stands between any Darkovan and the prospect of having their heart stopped in their sleep by a malicious or vengeful com’ii, except the discipline of that compact, which is exacted in the form of an oath given to every telepath.”

She sighed, watching the girl closely, to see how her words were affecting her.

“Few Darkovans know more about the Ages of Chaos than the name. And the fact that it was a time before the Domains, when petty lordling fought petty lordling and all called themselves Kings, and the ordinary people of Darkover starved because fields were ravaged by war before they could be harvested, and the evils of war devastated and killed so many that today we are scattered thinly indeed, over land that was once well-inhabited and prosperous.”

“Have you ever wondered how that happened? Men war today, and blood-feud and raid, and bandits roam aplenty in the wild places—even in Alton’s lands these days. Yet this warfare produces no Dead Lands, and peace returns, and women bear children, and the next season’s harvest is gathered. It is cruel—all war is cruel—but it will never again bring Darkover to the brink of losing all human life.”

“And again, this is because of the discipline that telepaths agreed to, centuries ago. The Compact is not simply a matter of pride and honor, though it is mainly thought of that way, now. It is not simply to prevent skulking assassins from putting an arrow in the back of an unheeding enemy, or to ensure that every man who is willing to wear a blade is prepared to face a blade. The Compact was not a matter of honor. It was a matter of survival—a fact that I think only the Towers of Darkover still understand, and not even all Towers.”

“We alone have the records and stories and remnants of those days, sufficient to know why this discipline is not simply an exercise for the sake of power or control, but the very breath that keeps Darkover alive.”

She looked very somber, indeed, as she continued.

“Have you ever wondered about the Dead Lands? Nothing will grow there, and anything that gets too close risks a blight that will kill and maim to come upon them.”

“Even the Towers have lost the precise knowledge of how these lands were devastated, but we know this much: They were blasted with laran weapons so terrible that even after centuries have passed, they kill. Weapons made by telepaths, using laran. In Towers. To serve the vanities and wars of lords and kings. Every Tower trying to develop a weapon just a little bit more terrible than the last one, to give the mastery to their lord or king. Weapons of madness, of terror. They destroyed stone castles and towers in cascades of fire, blasted lands with death, until there were barely enough people left alive, enough lands left bearing fruit, for human life to continue on Darkover.”

“That is why the ruins of Hali Tower lie today where they stood centuries ago when the Towers began to turn upon each other, vying for frightfulness and destruction. That is why there is a Compact on Darkover that prevents any man from using any weapon that does not bring him into arm’s reach of his opponent.”

“That is why every telepath swears the oath when they take up a matrix, to force no mind unwilling, to use laran to help, only, and never to hurt. To have the consent of those we help, if they are able to give it. And every telepath on Darkover is bound to enforce that oath. To stop the abuse of power, if they can, or submit oathbreakers to the judgment of a Tower.”

“That is why it is safe to sit next to a laran-gifted companion, even if he covets your goods or your life—because he can only attempt to take them by the same force of arm that every other man on Darkover is free to use, and can resist by ordinary means if need be.”

“But there is another kind of discipline required, too. Did you have threshold sickness, Lirielle?”

The girl nodded.

“Unpleasant, but it passes. In almost every case. Except the very, very rare cases, where it kills. That is perhaps the clearest warning: Laran can be dangerous to the bearer. In the times of the Ages of Chaos, it is said that comyn bred their children for laran strength and gifts, and the gifts became so powerful, so distorted, that children gifted with such laran died in the womb, sometimes killing the mother who bore them. Many others died in threshold sickness.”

“Laran must use the energy channels of our bodies, the network of channels that carries forces of life. Laran improperly channeled can kill. Laran not properly attuned to the bearer’s ordinary energy flows can cause madness, or imbecility, or death. And to keep it properly channeled requires discipline, especially when the laran is augmented by the power of a matrix stone. See this?”

Desia drew her gown’s bodice aside a little, from her throat and her right shoulder and the top of her breast. The skin there was puckered in a strange, dark, rayed pattern.

“Once, when Caitlyn was teaching me to use the relay lattices, I failed to perceive a change in the temper of the energy flows on an incoming transmission. It would have been alright, had I simply dropped the flows—she would have caught them up and no harm done—but in my carelessness and my certainty that my abilities were adequate, I tried to channel them as I thought they should be. The force of the backflow from my own laran—not the energies from the lattice, mind you—did this. I would be dead, now, if Caitlyn and Elanna and Coryn had not been very alert. It took Elanna nearly ten days to bring me back from the brink of death.”

“You are too young to have been to the rhu fead, the Holy Place, when the old King died. Yet perhaps you have heard a little of it. There, behind some of the most powerful matrix screens on Darkover—screens that no one now living can destroy or break through—lay some of the treasures of the Comyn from days so long past that no song or tale now tells more than small hints of what they are and how they came there.”

“There, in the holy place, behind those screens, a girl lies on a bier surrounded by an impenetrable stasis field, a girl not much older than yourself, Lirielle.”

“She is not dead. She lives, yet she will never waken. She is young, and lovely, and looks as though one would only have to speak her name for her to open her eyes and sit up, and wonder how she came to such a strange place.”

“All we know of her is that she was placed there because she bore a laran so terrible, so uncontrolled and uncontrollable, that it would destroy not only her, but the very world we stand on, if she awakened, for not even she could control it. It was a laran such as, thank Aldones, no one today has. A weather laran, that could move clouds and lightning, in storms that make the worst of the Heller storms look like a summer snowshower. Storms that pull the energy forces of the very world of Darkover into their fury.”

“That is why, above all other things that a Keeper—she who wields the most powerful laran abilities of all—must learn, discipline is the first and greatest. Not just the skill to use your laran with precision, bend it to your will, make it serve you—but the discipline to not use it, to restrain yourself and, if need be, others. To keep it from ever, ever being misused again.”

“Do you understand, Lirielle?”



Upstairs, in his working chamber, Coryn was doing what made him happiest—creating. He had repaired a small relay lattice, and made a lock-matrix for the Lord of Mariposa, and now he was free to work on the real project of the night. A Keeper’s matrix.

No one had made a Keeper’s matrix for years. Coryn had never made one, though he had cut dozens of ordinary matrix stones, and cut them well. But this one—this one would be special.

Special even to the raw material itself. Softly, catfootedly, as though some creature were present and should not be allowed to overhear, he walked across the room, pulled aside a curtain. There, in an alcove, were cupboards and chests, protected, many of them, by lock matrices—for in them were some of the forgotten or seldom-used treasures of Arilinn.

He knew exactly what he was looking for. He’d used it once before, years ago, to build the special lattice that was used by the healers to augment their energy flows in doing things that did not require a full Circle. He’d noted, then, how readily the stone took a pattern, almost eagerly, and how powerfully and readily it had amplified the energies. It had an odd ‘feel’ to it, a curious, almost electric feel, that gave it a strange quality. It required the most careful and skilled cutting—he’d spoiled no fewer than four stones, last time he tried. They’d had unpleasant, buzzing resonances that interfered with the energy flows and distorted them. He’d had to destroy them. A pity, because they were beautiful.

This particular blank imparted a kind of almost-violet, almost-purple undertone to its blue, that showed sometimes in the stone’s highlights. It was gorgeous stuff, and he found himself eager to use it again.

There was not much left. Where it had come from in the first place was a mystery; he’d run across it while searching for some old silicate blooms for glassmaking. It had been in an insulating box, triple-wrapped in insulating fabric, pushed against the wall on the floor of a cupboard, under a shelf, and blocked by boxes of old papers and records. He’d been curious, dusted it off, and resolved to try something with it.

Now, it would form the basis for Lirielle’s matrix. Carefully, he brought out the box from where he’d laid it those years ago. It was a little dusty, he wiped it thoroughly before bringing it out to the worktable.

Slowly, he opened the box, and peeled back one, two, three layers of insulating cloth. It didn’t look like much, raw matrix stone. Grayish, with occasional streaks of white. Flaws and inclusions were common, but this had remarkably few.

He took out the largest piece. If there were no flaws within, it would cut… how would it cut, he wondered, lost in a creative reverie? Then he saw it. Yes, it would be a rare shape—not much used. Ovals and rounds were common. But this was definitely a pear-shaped stone. Perhaps the size of a bellflower—a bit larger than usual. Size did not have much to do with how strong or versatile a matrix was—the quality of the stone itself was the first determinant there, and then the skill of the cut in laying the crystalline structure out to best advantage for energy-conductivity, but if you had two stones otherwise equal in all qualities, the larger was usually the stronger. Not invariably, but usually.

Humming tunelessly, as was his rather irritating habit when he was deep in his work, he drew the covers from his tools.

Lirielle

Wide eyed, horror and shock giving them a slightly glazed appearance; Lirielle stared at Desia. Her gaze sliding over the leronis' scarred flesh, the young woman flinching again at the sight of it.
There will be nightmares. Lirielle had never imagined laran to be so dangerous. Of course she'd been aware of the folly in not undergoing training, but to learn that laran could escape control was frightening and new.

Even now she could glimpse the laran-cursed girl, forever sleeping within the rhu fead. Lirielle was terrified that if she looked a little closer, she'd discover her own face gazing back at her.

She trembled, looked away from Desia, felt her skin crawl and wondered if there was more to it than simply fear.
Do I sense something of this unknown girl in me? She shuddered, bit her lip to trap an escaping whimper.
Suddenly she wanted more than anything to go home, to be rid of her laran and safe in the loving arms of her father, of her brother and sisters.

Desia sensing that her words had been more disturbing than perhaps she'd intended pressed her hands forward on the table until they lingered a hair's breath away from Lirielle's fingertips.
The closest a telepath would venture without consent; in Darkover what passed for a casual, reassuring touch.

"It's frightening," she admitted, turned back to the leronis. "I never imagined my laran could present so many terrible possibilities. I only ever saw it as the means to an…" Her voice faded, but in the ether her sentence finished in the echoed words of Melor Alton, carried now by Lirielle's unguarded thoughts. Ambition. It drives everyone in this family! It drives Jeran towards death, Arbella as far away from me as she can get and Miralys to people her home with the kind of family we Altons in this generation are not. In her mind's eye Lirielle could see him gazing at her even now. And you my little nightingale, it drives hardest of all.

Again her mind flashed on the vision of her mother, unwittingly revealed by the deep monitoring and re-experienced the awareness that either Caitlyn or Elanna knew that face.
Does my mother's laran run riot?

"It won't happen to me will it Desia?" Fear dulled the golden hue of her eyes. "I'll not be consumed by my laran will I?" Not be sealed away in some chamber like the girl at rhu fead?

Caitlyn sensed Lord Alton’s dismay; she felt a pang of compassion for him and tried to allay what must be the first (and worst) of his fears about what might bring the Keeper of Arilinn to Armida.

“Lirielle is well, my Lord, and has been accepted for the training of a Keeper in Arilinn Tower. Further, she will be, I hope, the first of a new line of Keepers who will be more valuable to Darkover than ever—and who will be able to live lives closer to those of ordinary Comynara. Much is changing, and some of that change offers new and brighter possibilities for Darkover and the men and women of the Towers who serve her.” Her smile, reassuring until now, suddenly went flat, a trifle twisted.

“However, not all that comes with change is good, and sometimes the need for change forces… bad decisions, and actions that can be harmful to others.”

“My Lord, I must ask of you a great liberty, and a great privilege. In preparing Lirielle for training, we of Arilinn learned something of her history that you yourself may be unaware of. A great wrong has been done, and I seek to right it.”

“But I cannot do so without your aid, Lord Alton. And so that you can understand the need, I must ask you to allow me to share, in rapport, what I learned from Lirielle that day, and then what I discovered…”

The Lord of Alton was relieved by Caitlyn’s quick reassurance—the unacknowledged dread that had plummeted like a stone within his heart had, indeed, been connected to the girl who had held so much of his heart in her hands, since the day when the tiny fingers had first curled around his own, massive finger.

Then he was puzzled, and a new uneasiness gathered in his stomach. The Keeper’s cleancut, delicate features were calm, but her amber-green eyes held a shadow—what shadow of Arilinn could possibly have to do with him, with Alton? Slowly, he nodded, if not with an entirely heartfelt willingness, at least with good grace. His own laran was so rudimentary that the conscious rapport was a difficult thing for him—not a frequent occurrence, and not one he enjoyed.

“Very well, vai Leroni.”

Caitlyn nodded, and her face grew remote, still. In a moment, he felt a heavy, indistinct feeling in his mind, as though a veil were cast over it, slowly shutting out awareness of the study around him. Then he felt the Keeper’s touch, strong and sure, but delicate. As though focusing on some distant scene, a colorful blur gradually grew clearer, and drew closer.

Lirielle’s form, resting prone, and the presence of Caitlyn and another telepath. He could see a blur of images, passing too fast to identify, then it slowed, and the beautiful face with its floating halo of red hair came into focus.

He felt the shock of the Arilinn Keeper and her companion. “Raineach? Lirielle’s mother? Keeper of Neskaya, vowed to virginity? Oathbreaker?”

Somewhere inside Lord Alton a floodgate trembled, at the brink of opening, a feeling of massive shock and impending doom. Then he was aware of the feeling dissipating, being diverted, as the Keeper channeled his consciousness away from the danger there, and back into the images forming and re-forming.

[I]The form of Raineach of Neskaya, strangely familiar, attached to feelings that he could not yet feel, only hold an awareness of their existence.

The story of that day, the Ghost Wind…

Now suddenly familiar as if it had happened yesterday, as the floodgates within opened and Caitlyn channeled the long-forgotten knowledge into Lord Alton’s consciousness…

The figure of Raineach, approaching… him going to meet her… dropping to his knees, the terrible invasion of his mind and consciousness, the lacuna of oblivion placed over the knowledge of that day in the Ghost Wind and everything after, until he found himself alone on the slopes below Armida—no, not alone, for he was carrying a child, his child. Unaware of her mother now, unable to explain, even to himself, how she came to him, only the quick-rapped orders to the Armida servitors to prepare rooms, seek out a nurse for his new and beloved nedestro daughter.

And, seeing his reticence, sensing some danger there, no one had ever dared to question him further. It had been enough that he had acknowledged the child, and sure enough, as she grew it was apparent she was a true-born Alton.

He was aware, peripherally, of Caitlyn placing her own laran touch between this new knowledge and the swirl of intense feelings and sensations it evoked, taking the brunt, and dissipating the almost overwhelmingly powerful storm. It was not the delicate precision of a monitor’s touch—Caitlyn was no Elanna—but it was as though a steadying hand were reached to help a faltering rider dismount without injury. Gradually, it withdrew, along with all of the rest of the Keeper’s touch in his mind, leaving it clear again, his own again—this time with all of his memories.

The Keeper was regarding him gravely. She had done an unpleasant task with what grace and tact she could muster, simply imparting the information to Lord Alton, releasing those long-implanted barriers, and mitigating the impact of the psychic flood that had gathered there, all those long years, so that the Alton Lord could view this knowledge on his own terms and with his own response. She had carefully refrained from probing that response, or seeking or reading his thoughts in any way. As he had already been violated once, by a Keeper abusing her powers, Caitlyn would scrupulously avoid any contact with Lord Alton that was not unequivocally necessary, and invited—or at least allowed.

Now she waited, her expression calm, to know the dimensions of the storm she had unleashed, and what she might have to do to contain it, and keep a very understandable desire for justice—or even vengeance—from toppling all she had worked for over the years, and throwing Darkover’s Towers back to the darkness.

In Comyn Tower, Javanne was relaying Lyondri Aillard’s words to Hastur: “…they are supplied with some kind of sorcery that moves gigantic metal vehicles at their will both in the air and on the ground. They may have other sorcery as well—perhaps you should alert the Towers,” when the massive rush of seemingly uncontrolled, purposeless laran power, swirling about the Tower like a storm in the Hellers, struck the senses of every telepath in Comyn Castle.

Some cried out in confusion, some reached out mentally to find the source—it was too motile, too unfocused, unconnected with any telepath in the Castle.

Marcus Hastur felt it at the same moment Javanne did, and his eyes widened. “Zandru’s hells, was that…?”

Javanne, though, after the first startled rush, was already reaching out, trying to fathom the nature of the power and from whence it emanated. It was as though some unyielding barrier stood between her and the source, yet she knew somehow that the source was in the Castle, itself. In an instant, she flung up a hand, commanding silence, needing every ripple of concentration she could muster.

She should know where it was coming from. She should know… She almost knew, then it slipped away, the barrier taking shape. It was strange, but not unrecognizable, that barrier; in fact, she did recognize it, and gasped. Someone in the old sealed levels of the Comyn Tower, behind a barrier-screen manufactured centuries ago.

She felt a curious shudder run through her, almost a premonition, seeming to emanate from her matrix; opened her mouth to speak. “My Lord, it is…”

And as she spoke, in those shielded levels, Raineach bent her powers to a seeming door—it looked so easy—just to open a door…

…and tripped the trap-matrix in the barrier, sealing her within. The sudden surge of power flared through the barrier with incredible force, but the barrier held, as it had been designed to, by matrix technicians, specialists from a time when matrix engineering had wrought marvels and horrors beyond the memory of living Darkovans.

Keyed to the barrier through her matrix, a charge given to her solemnly with the charge of Comyn Tower, Javanne—her mind already wide-open, questing and seeking for the source of the laran, received the full blast of that surge, channeled through her matrix and into her mind.

With a little cry, she broke off, and slumped forward, unconscious. The power that had imposed itself on the consciousness of every comyn telepath in the castle died, leaving only the faintest echo.

Instinctively, Marcus surged forward to catch her, but Carylla Alar, Javanne’s second, interposed herself. “Do not touch her, my Lord… we do not know what is amiss… some foul sorcery of these strangers?”

She already had her matrix out, and was monitoring Javanne’s limp form. She breathed a sigh of relief. “She lives. But there is no consciousness there, not even a thread.” She looked up at the Hastur Lord. “And my Lord Marcus,” she shook her head slowly, “I have no idea what that sorcery was. It felt—oddly familiar—yet it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It may, indeed, be some creation of the strangers. We must be very wary. I will send messages, in the relays, to all the Towers, asking them to send a representative here, to Thendara. We will have need of them, I think. I only hope they arrive in time.”

Marcus nodded, slowly. “Do so at once, then come to the Crystal Chamber. The dampers in there will prevent any from meddling.”

“I hope.” He added. With a nod to his paxman, he sent the man to seek out Rafael, as he made his own way to the Crystal Chamber. He fought the urge to go down to the Guards headquarters, to take charge there. He keenly felt the lack of Melor and Jeran, but he knew the remaining officers knew their duty and were doing it.

As he made his way through the Castle, Lyondri Aillard passed through the City gate and came within range to contact him directly.

“My Lord Hastur, I am approaching, with one of the barbarian leaders and some of his paxmen. I don’t know what happened, or how much Lady Javanne was able to relay to you—I lost contact with her. But these strangers may well be dangerous. There are a great many of them, and they can move huge metal wagons through the sky and on the earth, so heavy that they shake apart the very roads.”

“I don’t think they are very bright,” Lyondri continued, “at least, not this leader. They speak no civilized tongue, and understand none. And I don’t like”—here the Cadet Commander’s thought became emphatic—something about this one. I am no Ridenow, but I can tell the feeling is mutual. I hope I have not done ill, my Lord. I am no diplomat, as you know.”

Hastur repressed a sigh. He valued the Cadet Commander—a skilled warrior and very good with the young cadets—but the man’s prejudices and arrogance were known to him. Keenly, again, he missed the Altons. He decided not to mention the surge of sorcery that had knocked Javanne unconscious; Aillard was already on edge, clearly.

“Well done, Lyondri. The Guards are fully mobilized, word has been sent to the Towers. Your help has been invaluable. Bring the strangers to me in the Crystal Chamber.”

Rafael had, at least, stopped to put on a fresh tunic, although his mat of curly hair was as unruly as ever. He entered the Crystal Chamber almost on his kinsman’s heels.

Rather than pelt Marcus with questions, he entered quietly, and nodded to his uncle. If the Regent had time to explain, he would, otherwise Rafe would just have to gather what he could of the strange events of the last couple of hours, and whatever was to occur here.

He and Aric had been on patrol in the streets of Thendara when the “falling moons” of “Aldaran sorcery” had appeared in the sky. They had been near one of the many street markets in the poorer, northern districts of the city, and their first thought had been to quell the incipient panic. They hadn’t done too badly. By acting unafraid themselves, and ordering one gibbering, hysterical idiot babbling about “the end of the world!’ to be taken home by her companions, they’d largely been able to confine the reaction to one more of wonder than anxiety. The people in that district knew many of the noble Cadets, and even Hastur’s heir and his friend, and if the young King-to-be showed no fear, and did not rush about in a panic, they would not allow their fear of the unknown to overwhelm them, either.

He’d nodded thanks and approval to a few of the local merchants and stallholders who were well-known in the street, recommending them to look after their friends and keep everyone from racing to the Castle, or the gates, and possibly impeding the progress of investigating guardsmen. They’d stayed in their patrol area until the “general quarters” bell had boomed, then made their way quickly but with outward calm back towards the barracks, to report to their sections.

His uncle’s messenger had caught him there—he’d said a quick farewell to Aric, and made his way to the Crystal Chamber. On the way, the man had filled him in on as much as he knew: the Cadet Commander had taken a patrol out to meet the “falling moons” and found strange people there. He was bringing some back to the City. They were not Aldarans, not Dry-Towners, they were like no Darkovan ever seen before. They might be sorcerers.

And that was all he knew when he caught his uncle’s eye as he quietly took his seat.

As the party rode through the gates, the paxman of the strangers’ leader unfurled a strange banner. Oddly, this made Lyondri feel better. They were not so very strange, after all. Any leader would want to travel under his banner, in a strange city.

The narrow streets of Thendara were close-paved with flat cobbles made of light-colored stone. As they passed through the city from the gate to the Castle, the smaller dwellings and shopfronts, constructed of greenish-grey and dark charcoal-colored stone, gave way to larger houses, mostly behind walls with beautifully colored, intricately-wrought gates of wood and stone, with ingenious post-and hole hinge mechanisms of a hard, semi-translucent substance. The colors of the buildings began to lighten—pale amber stone, set with panels of translucent, colorless blocks in pleasing curvilinear configurations, became popular. Other colors, too—a pale rosy-hued, intricately veined stone was popular for door lintels and framing. These were no crude huts, and they had an aura of great antiquity to them.

The streets widened, a little, as they approached the Castle, which loomed in the distance, its pale towers and iridescent-set walls glimmering like something from a legend. If Aldaran Castle was impressive for its sheer impossibility and impregnable strength, Comyn Castle—vast, airy-seeming, ancient and beautiful—made an entirely different, but no less definite, impression.

They passed more than a few well-armed, alert patrol units of guardsmen as they wound through the City, but no conversation was exchanged, the patrols merely saluted the party. The strangers could, if they chose, interpret the salutes to their banner; in reality, they were acknowledging the Cadet Commander.

When they drew near the Castle, there was a bustle in the courtyard before the broad, shallow, many-stepped stair that led to the main doors. Guardsmen ran to take their horses. Lyondri Aillard snapped a quick order to the four-man patrol who had accompanied him, and they saluted smartly and made for the guards barracks. With a gesture, Aillard indicated the doors.

Outside Thendara, one of the marines saw Iolanthe runing off, and was alarmed. Corporal Gebhardt hurried after her, noting to greater dismay that she was talking--more likely trying to talk to one of the locals. He felt the irritation and concern a parent would feel for a wayward child--scientists, no regard for procedure or their own necks...and cried out, "Hey, Academican Pfommer! Don't stray from the camp, please, your Honour!" as he moved up, his G-11 at port arms in case the native got any funny ideas. Anna saw this developement in alarm from the ramp of the shuttle--she now realized that her friend had not gone native out of romance, but in earnest. And that she had run to the stranger as if he was a long lost friend or something...

Meanwhile, inside, von Falkenstein felt a rush of pleasure seeing the castle. That it was of little practical use anymore to Lavenrunz meant little; it was a thing of beauty and excellence to him. And it also made him reasses a bit: clearly these folk at least understood engineering in a serious way, given their poor technology--and that might be for any number of reasons. He did not know if the salute was accorded him or not--but whatever his other shortcomings he was an excellent soldier and military historian, and noted that the officer leading the group received it. Therefore he reserved that of the group for entry into the castle itself.

Early the next morning, every Aldaran retainer who could possibly find a legitimate excuse was hovering close to the walls, or working out in the bailey, which afforded a view of the fields outside Caer Donn.

Esteban, Shavanni, Beltran, and Ankas Darriell had already ridden, with Karen and her people, down to the meadow Beltran had advised as a landing-place for the Lav’runz’i. Lieutenant Hochswender had tried to describe the landing of the ships and the hot air blasts that were needed to allow it to set down properly.(OOC: Let me know if I need to edit that, Lav) The landing-place should be convenient to the town and the Castle road, spacious, and close to a water-source, if the Lav’runz’i were to camp there comfortably. Beltran had selected a large area that had once been tillage farmed by a prominent family in Caer Donn, but had reverted to Lord Aldaran’s control when the last of that family had died without an heir. Having no need of further tillage, the Lord had allowed it to go to meadow and pasturage, a public grazing accommodation in the spring and fall when herds were being moved.

At the moment, it simply stretched, empty, flat, and inviting, bounded by the Castle road on one side, and that intersected by a wide curve of the stream that turned again to drop just outside the town and provide a race for the watermill. On the side opposite the road, the flat, even terrain gave way in a few gentle terraces and rocky declivities to the next flat level, where demesne farms and homesteads ringed the town.

The Darkovans watched while Hochswender and his men set landing markers for the dropship. Shavanni sat on her horse next to Karen, who had become an accustomed rider by this time. She sat her mount almost like a Darkovan native. Esteban was fascinated by the operations of the troopers, occasionally glancing at the sky, riveted on the wonders to come. But Shavanni glanced at her friend and grinned, with an almost childlike delight, knowing through the thread of their rapport that the Lav’runz’i officer was feeling a real sense of accomplishment, finally, at being able to offer her people a friendly reception here.

There were still many and a-many problems and challenges to overcome—would the Lav’runz’i see that their strange weapons were unneeded here? Would they agree to put them away while in Aldaran lands? Would they be able to accept the hard life of wresting a living from the unforgiving Hellers, even with the help of Aldaran’s people? Could they understand the delicate balances needed here to preserve the capacity of the mountains to sustain their folk, and adapt to the intimate demands they made on those who would inhabit them? But at least, thus far, they had established friendship—and that was the foundation of everything.

She and Esteban had come to know, over the days, hints of the real nature of the threat that the Lav’runz’i could pose, above and beyond their strange, unsavory weapons. They relied on technologies and machines, like the strange wheeled contraptions they had left at Jarko’s, in Cleartrees village, that had been created on another world, to impose their will upon that world. Would they be able to see that Darkover was different? She looked at her promised husband. Esteban, she knew, was quite fascinated by the possibilities of the Lav’runz’i machines. Perhaps the threat was not entirely limited to the coming of the Lav’runz’i.

At last, the sharp-eyed An’kas Darriell shouted, and pointed upwards. A light, like a star twinkling in the daytime hours! Swiftly, it grew larger, and larger, resolving itself into a vast metal shape.

The people of Caer Donn, too, were watching in some awe and much curiosity, streaming out to stand at the edges of the terraced demesne-farms and gape. The guardsmen of Aldaran had spread the news last night, so this advent was not unexpected, but it was still a fearsome and amazing thing, this visit to their Lord. Still, the guardsmen had assured them that the visitors were men and women, like themselves, if very strange indeed in their ways and appearance. So the thrill of fear at the unknown was there, but also the assurance and the excitement of anticipation.

The Lav’runz’i troopers had returned to stand in formation, by Karen and the Darkovans. Everyone’s nerves were tingling—and their ears were ringing, too, with the vast unholy noise the thing was making!

Up on the Castle battlements, Dom Gabriel and his children, with Margali and the lowland strangers, watched with equal intensity and, perhaps, more apprehension.

Dom Gabriel had already met with Alekandro Ardais that morning, seeking the man out in the Idriel Tower and greeting and welcoming his friend, who seemed to be recovering well, but still moving with difficulty due to the wound. Carefully, he had related to them everything he knew from Shavanni and Esteban of the strangers’ advent and their journey to Aldaran, not omitting the terrible weapons they had used in the encounter with the bandits of Hawkfist.

He had finished thusly:

“They make me both very uneasy and strangely hopeful, these wayfarers from the stars. I am not unmindful of the threat they offer—such weapons would devastate much that is Darkover, even if they were never turned upon the people of Darkover. Aldones forbid!” he added, in a mutter, before continuing.

“I do not know how it is in the lowland Domains—an ignorance I deeply regret, I assure you! But here in the mountains there are many untenanted holdings, manors serving no purpose but to roost kyorebni and shelter brigands, and valleys run wild. If these people are determined to stay here, I believe we will have greater control over them by working with them than by opposing them, and so I have extended, with some caution, the hand of friendship.”

“But ever the threat is in my mind. I think it is a time, kinsman, for Aldaran and the Domains to put aside some of our ancient differences, and prepare to serve Darkover as our home will need to be served, in order to deal with these newcomers. I have sent forth the word to my vassals—no Aldaran vassal will raid or reave in the lands of the Kilghards this season, not with the sanction of Aldaran, at any rate.”

His rueful expression acknowledged that, far from the physical oversight of their Lord, vassals—especially the brawling and unruly mountain folk—were not always overly scrupulous about cooperating with unwelcome requests.

“Now this news must be taken to the Comyn Council, and quickly as may be. I would send a man of Aldaran—but what hearing would he receive? Better, I think, if you go, together with my son, Ranald, and take this word. I pledge you that we will look after your paxman, here, and send him to you in Thendara as soon as he is ready to travel, with the protection of Aldaran.”

“You need not decide now, nor would I go against your will in this. But if you can come with me this morning, to the battlements that overlook Caer Donn, I think you will see the need for urgency.”

And so they stood (or in the case of Rohan, sat in a chair fetched for the purpose,) and looked over the parapet at the field where the vast metal craft settled to its landing.

Karen felt her heart swell up with pride. She was in direct contact with the Beowulf again, and have proved that the more sparsely populated region of the Hellers could be approached from the air with ease. With fortune--and with God's grace--they would be able to settle without coming to blows, without ruining what they had found.
Kotzebue had conversed with her quietly that morning, and had suggested that there were a great many unknowns yet among the Darkovern, that were yet to be solved. It was deceptive, that they were simply people. He warned her that all meetings between radically different cultures ended in violence without caution and wisdom prevailing.
And courage. she thought, seeing the dropship land. She spurred her agitated mount forward. It had all come back to her, riding, and she projected calm to the beast, taming her excitement a bit.
Schauss and Muller came down the lower ramp as the vessel lay cooling, the metal making clicking noises as it adjusted. Schauss and Muller both wore blue flight jumpsuits and helmets, their respiratory masks detached, and were smiling, though standing at attention to salute their Captain.
"Welcome to Aldaran, Lieutenants Schauss and Muller." said Karen, smiling as she returned it.
"Thank you, Excellency." replied Schauss. "Why, this is fantastic--we seem to have returned to the age of chivalry!"
"As you see." she gestured at herself on the horse, and then turned round to the gathering company of nobles and liegemen and other retainers who had been bold enough to come up. "Lady Shavanni, please convey to Dom Gabriel and Dom Esteban that these officers are Lieutenant Schauss and Lieutenant Muller, the pilots of this craft. Lieutenant Hochswender, instruct your Marines to get the gift boxes off the dropship."
"And my equipment." muttered Kotzebue. "As soon as possible afterward, please."
Hochswender suppressed a grin, saying gravely instead, "Yes, Herr Doctor-Professor."

Karen had decided that outside was a good enough place to present the gifts. It had been difficult to decide what to present to them, but fortunately they had had time during the trip to decide. For Dom Gabriel, there was an elegant black audio recorder set in a rosewood case, from which she played, by way of demonstration, a recording of the exact order of the dance music from the other night. "It may hold a vast memory of songs, and we have included some of various types of our own culture as well. This, for instance, is the composer Hofman, from 230 years ago, and is played on an instrument called the klavier." The beautiful orderly variations evoked, for the Lavenrunzians, old paintings of powdered wigs, lace and buckled shoes and dandies and coffeehouses; carriages and soldiers in tricornes and the age of sail.
For Dom Esteban they had a snow leopard cub, the unusually intelligent breed used for hunting by Lavenrunzian aristocrats. The white and black furred kitten, the size of a house cat, was actually sound asleep but stirred, purring, as it was handed over, an adjustable collar round its neck with the heraldic device borne by Esteban on first encountering him.
For Lady Shavanni there was a large book, mostly illustrations, of the history of Lavenrunz, from Dark Ages paintings of solemn faced monks and pilgrims and warriors, to Medieval and renaissance portraits and scenes of daily life. At a discreet moment Karen showed her a few particular ones of her own ancestors, and one of her grandfather, in a white and gold court uniform at the coronation of Emperor Frederick II.

Shavanni conveyed the introductions to Esteban, although his knowledge of the Lav’runz’i tongue was progressing by leaps and bounds. He rode forward, and formally welcomed the Lieutenants and their troops to Aldaran.

“My Lord, the Lav’runz’i Lieutenants Schauss and Muller wish to be presented to you; and it appears that Domna Hochswender wishes to present gifts,” Shavanni relayed mentally, to Dom Gabriel on the battlement wall. She looked up at the tiny figures that could just be seen over the crenellated parapet. “Esteban has already conveyed your welcome,” she added.

“I am honored.,” the Lord of Aldaran responded. “We will ride down to meet you in the outer bailey.”

Shavanni conveyed this information to Karen, and when the boxes were ready they rode in procession back up the road to the Castle, where by this time the Lord of Aldaran, with a few retainers and guardsmen, had arrived in the open stretch between the fort-de-pont and the barbican.

The Darkovans were quite amazed by the gifts. Dom Gabriel was fascinated by the machine that played back to him the sounds of the previous night’s musical performances including the excited whoops of and applause of the dancers, and listened to the unfamiliar but lovely music from the Lav’runz’i homeworld with pleasure. He traced the grain of the rosewood curiously. “A lovely wood, Domna Hochenloe. It reminds me of some of the lowland hardwoods we prize, here.”

Esteban was stunned by the leopard, and essayed a few words of the language he had picked up in thanks. “Vielen dank, meine freunde. Ich werde grosse…” he groped for the word… “ummm…. geehrt?” His face conveyed the sentiment clearly. He would need Shavanni, later, to ask the Lav’runz’i about feeding the creature, and its care in general. He didn’t want to miss a word or a nuance in learning about the hunting cat, and wondered if it could be trained to hunt rabbithorn.

Shavanni found the book riveting. Pictorial arts, on Darkover, were limited, and she had never seen anything like the photographs and paintings illustrated in the book. She was impressed as much with the very fact of the representations as with the strange costumes they showed, and deeply impressed by the apparent importance of Karen’s ancestors, attending the coronation of their ruler. And upon turning a page to a picture showing some monks, she was quite startled. They looked almost exactly like the monks of St. Valentine-of-the-Snows depicted in one of the tapestries at Storn.

“Karen! Are these monks, then? Is St. Valentine-of-the-Snows known on your world?” She couldn’t believe it.

She scrutinized the text, as well. She’d been taught her letters as a child. Lord Storn was rare among Darkovan nobility in believing that his children should know as much as the coridoms who managed their estates, and that extended to the girls as well. She could still use the skill to mark packets of herbs and materials in her stillroom—about the only use she ever made of it—but although she could recognize the glyphs on the page as letters, they were slightly different than the Darkovan alphabet she had learned, and of course they were in the Lav’runz’i tongue. Still, it intrigued her that they were even recognizable, and she was filled with a wild speculation.

Iolanthe

Iolanthe ignored the marine as she pressed herself against Jeran and sought again the link she'd forged with him from the Beowulf not so long ago.
She was no stranger to horse riding, animals had never judged her and they'd been greater friends than many humans she'd known and this allowed her to achieve another goal.
While mentally she reached for a rapport with Jeran, her fingers deftly bound up one of her bags to the leather straps hanging from the saddle for just such reason. With the stallion turned to the side her activity went unnoticed; her contraband orchids secreted away. She'd glimpsed enough of the future to know that they'd eventually be reunited somehow.

Breathing in Jeran's scent she wished she could cling to him forever; sensed the many levels of emotions that were already mingling within him. They intensified as the rapport came and Iolanthe studied it a moment. Once she'd achieved it by accident, now she'd instinctively used touch to bring it about again. The next time, she'd need nothing more than the desire to achieve it.
Satisfied she slid gracefully from the stallion.

Jeran, my own people would never believe in such a thing as laran. There is no much I would like to tell them, but I know from experience that they would never believe me. She didn't need to look back at the Darkovan to know that he watched her as she returned to her place among the civilians. Her own gaze passed over Anna, recalling still the disbelief she'd faced from her truest friend on the Beowulf. The corporal had only a brief stern glance for her, eyes turning back to Jeran quickly enough. I can't let the colony stumble into conflict with Darkover and they will if we can't find some common ground between us. She tried to hide from Jeran the terrible armaments of the Beowulf. The nature of their rapport would not allow it and she sensed him blanche, felt his anger. The power that we possess could obliterate this world Jeran. I don't think we could forgive ourselves if we destroyed your people in some foolish disagreement. Not when there is a way we can forge something better...a friendship between our peoples.

She wondered, as she came to her place among the scientists and turned back to face Jeran, if she'd said too much.

There is one, von Falkenstein, who may well already be in the city there. You must go and be the translator I cannot yet be. I will be with, I will translate through you. She avoided turning to face Anna, though she could feel the gaze of the woman on her. You don't have much time Jeran. Go now.

At last he spoke and she knew that he'd been convinced.
What about my men? He asked, and she understood that he spoke of the Guard still arrayed before the marines.

They are in no danger. They will not be harmed. She told Jeran, found that the rapport as ever dragged more from her than she'd intended. Unless they threaten us, unless they attempt something first.

They will not. Jeran replied indignantly. Yet she caught his doubt too and flinched at the hurt that blossomed within. Sorrow rising as she wondered how she had given him any reason to disbelieve her and sensing how it flowed directly from herself to him. She could even sense the apology that he shaped, traditional more than truly felt at this moment and she tried to drive away her emotions and press forward the urgency.
Go now Jeran, go now!

He dug his heels into the stallion, its mighty head shook. There was foam at the mouth, he'd ridden the poor creature hard. But Iolanthe could not pity it now. As horse and rider galloped past the marines, giving them as wide a berth as possible, Jeran shouted out instructions to the Guards.

Two more stallions were coming across the crest of land, appearing as suddenly as Jeran had and Iolanthe bit her lip. Let there be no more men following those riders. She prayed. Marines between two bodies of unknown hostiles could quickly become very nervous indeed.

Jeran was already flying across the plains, his stallion releasing a cache of energy she'd feared it did not have. She held on to the rapport, fearful it would snap as Jeran increased the distance between them. But his gentle laughter at her poor grasp of laran theory relaxed the intensity of her attempt and it seemed the rapport grew deeper, richer.
She focused on the words that had come to her over time, the lexicon of Darkovan casta that she'd mastered and tried to instil in Jeran an equal measure of her birth tongue and found Castilian blending into the mix.
Too much. Jeran cried out through the rapport and she drew her mind back. We'll work together once I'm with this von Falkenstein.

And Iolanthe thought, oh yes, oh yes. Knowing that there was much more to come.

The corner of Desia’s mouth twisted a little. “It has not happened to anyone since memory runs, Lirielle. And I think, since we left off breeding comyn like prize stock, that such terrible laran has vanished from among us. Still, there are great risks and perils, and not all of them simply physical,” she closed up the neck of her gown again.

“And this is why the very first thing any of us in the Towers learn, is discipline. Discipline can save life and reason in an emergency. And the discipline a Keeper must learn is greatest of all, because the work of holding the energon flows carries the greatest consequences for errors. A moment’s lapse in focus could kill—not only you, holding the flows, but the telepaths linked to you in the Circle.”

“Fortunately, we rarely do tasks that demand such powerful Circles. Still, an error can injure you or others, or can short out a relay screen, requiring long and difficult repairs or even the construction of new screens. A Keeper’s discipline must be absolute.”

She relaxed a little, and her expression grew pleasant, and thoughtful. “That said, there are some pleasant surprises in store for you, as well. A little of this I can tell you now, as I must before you are bound with the oath of the rikhi—which is a simple oath, merely to keep faith with the Tower and never to speak of what you learn here outside of the Tower without your Keeper’s permission. This we exact because, as you know, not all rikhi become Keepers—some leave without completing their training.”

Her features relaxed into a smile. “First of all, get used to having no secrets. Your teachers—Caitlyn, myself, Elanna, and others as needed, will know everything you are thinking. However, soon you will have your matrix stone, and that will run both ways—you will know what we are thinking. There are no mysteries, here. We learn to live in each others’ pockets, as it were.”

“At first, you will be somewhat protected from that—these quarters, where you will spend the next fifteen tendays—are somewhat shielded from the rest of the Tower. But within them, you will soon experience on a smaller scale the rapport that a Tower Circle has amongst its members. It can be an—uncomfortable—experience at first.”

“And second, you must learn—as part of the discipline required of you—great patience. You will not be throwing great bolts of laran from relay to relay for a very long time yet. In fact, for some tendays you will use your laran very little. The training will seem slow. This is needed, for many interwoven reasons.”

“You will see, for many tendays, only myself, Elanna, Caitlyn, and the kyrrii who serve these quarters. At first it will be frustrating—boring, lonely, and claustrophobic. Then it will seem the opposite—overwhelming, crowded, and with no space or time to yourself. Both of these stages will pass, as you learn the needed disciplines of thought and control. But it will be no easy task.”

“Now,” Desia sat back, and her face grew thoughtful, “there are other things I would like to tell you, but first you must decide whether to give the oath of the rikhi. The Altons are well known as keepers of their oath—almost as proverbial as the Word of Hastur. Of this I am well aware, so please do not believe that it is from any lack of trust that the oath is required under matrix-scan.”

She took her own matrix from its insulating bag around her neck, and stared into it. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a faint, bluish glow rose from her palm, and spread, becoming fainter as it spread but still barely perceptible. It grew until the glow seemed to illuminate Desia’s face, and, Lirielle believed, her own.

“The words of the oath are thus: Desia’s voice said inside Lirielle’s head. “You may repeat them aloud or mind-to-mind, it makes no difference, the oath is sealed either way.”

“I swear to hold faith with Arilinn Tower and the Arilinn Tower Circle, to take no action to harm the Tower or the Circle, to keep all that is taught to me in confidence and speak of it to no one but the Tower Circle unless permitted by the Keeper of Arilinn.”

Lyondri noted with sour approval that the strangers made an apparently respectful gesture upon passing under the banner-hung entry to the Castle. Inside, the strange mix of ancient pomp and anomalous oddities like lighting panels with no apparent power source was so familiar to him that he took it for granted. Livery-clad retainers made their way through the halls on business, and when they got past the public reception area, another small detachment of uniformed Guardsmen saluted the Cadet Commander and fell into step with him.

The route through the vast and intricate Castle to the Crystal Chamber, at the top of the large central tower, was lengthy and included many stairs. They were broad and gracious, tapestry-hung, palely gleaming stone with intricately carved balusters. Several men could walk abreast on the stairs and through the principal halls. The Lavenrunzian could not know it, but Lyondri was taking him by the longest and most impressive public route—there were back stairs that were much simpler and more direct. But this way gave some picture of the ancient heritage of the ruling Comyn, and the days when matrix circles regularly performed prodigies of architectural engineering and construction that rivaled anything the machines of technological civilizations could produce.

The Crystal Chamber itself—with its vast domed ceiling high overhead glimmering with the translucent light-facets that gave it its name—was one such marvel. Set into the walls at regular intervals were oddly-shaped intaglios of faceted crystal stones, glowing with a light of their own: telepathic dampers. A table, with six distinct sections, like a hexagon that had been broken open at one end, filled most of the space. Behind each section hung a banner, worked on strangely shimmering fabric:

Per chevron vert and sable in base three mountains sable in chief a falcon volant proper: A falcon hovering on a green background over black shapes that might be stylized mountains.
Sable an eagle displayed argent membered gules: A red-clawed, silver eagle on a black ground.
Azure a fir tree argent: A silver fir tree on a blue ground.
Azure a fir tree argent in chief a crown. The same banner, with a crown above the tree.
Gules three feathers argent in bend sinister: Three silver feathers on a red ground.
Vert in saltire five annulets or: Five gold rings on a green ground.

At the intact “point” of the table, a huge, high-backed throne sat empty. On its right side, a high-backed, but less ostentatious chair was occupied by a man in late middle age, with silver-streaked brownish-red hair and a short beard almost entirely grizzled. He had the air of a person whose commands were always obeyed, and the broad shoulders of a warrior and swordsman. Behind and to the left of him one pace, a lean, dark-haired man with an air of almost feral intensity stood, with a hand resting on the hilt of his long dagger. He did not move, or speak, seeming almost like a statue—but a statue that might pounce with dagger drawn at the slightest hint of threat.

On the left of the throne, in an ordinary chair, sat a youngster of perhaps sixteen, with a homely, snub-nosed face and unruly curling hair and a grave, interested expression. Behind him stood two uniformed guardsmen.

To older man’s right, separated by some empty seats, sat a woman in a high-necked, elaborately-embroidered gown, her long, dark-auburn hair coiled intricately under a gossamer-translucent veil held with jewel-headed pins, before being gathered behind by a jeweled clasp. Her pale, narrow, aristocratic-featured face was remote and she met no one’s eyes.

All this could be seen as the massive, silver- and copper-inlaid double doors to the chamber swung open before Lyondri and the strangers, by no apparent human agency.

******************

The Regent of Hastur was a badly worried man, but it did not show on his regally-composed face. He had made the decision to meet in the Crystal Chamber because if the strangers really were dangerous sorcerers, they would at least be unable to use their powers amid the room’s dampers. But those same dampers also prevented Lyondri from giving him any further information about the strangers in private.

The Cadet Commander seemed as nonplused as the Regent, but then, with an instinct for the dramatic gesture, he stood aside for the strangers to enter; when they were all within the room, opposite the throne, he gestured broadly, and named each of the Darkovans seated at the large table.

“Marcus-Kieran Gabrial Alar Hastur of Hastur, Regent of Elhalyn.”

“Rafael-Istvan Hastur of Elhalyn, Heir to Hastur.”

The Lady Carylla Harryl-Alar, Leronis of Comyn Tower.”

The representatives of the two worlds stared at each other.

The Lavenrunzians were as pleased as anyone at Christmas watching others open gifts and liking them; at first anticipation, then delight as they saw lit up faces and smiles. The marines--hardly stupid men and women but rather hard bitten--unloaded some further supplies for what would be called the embassy.
Karen meanwhile was receiving a report and was not liking it.
She could hardly call the commander of her marine contingent a fool, or the admiral a backstabbing conniver, but both thoughts
were flashing in her head furiously as she approached Shavanni.
She found though that her anger was suddenly confused by her immediate response to Shavanni's wonder--she found herself smiling in
response and standing beside her to gesture at the picture.
"I do not know of this monastery you speak of, liebchen." she said, blushing as the word escaped her without thinking. "But this monastery
existed in Lavenrunz, for instance, since the last eight hundred years. Also, the good father accompanying us--he is what you would call a crisoforo--a Christian. So are we all."
She wondered what Shavanni made of other pictures--one for instance showing a whaler's boats engaging a great sperm whale in the age of sail, or a formation of fighter bombers, or disturbing ones like people desperately trying to evacuate cruiser Alfkonur during the Rukemian Affair. What she made of the sheer numbers of people...of scenes of the crowded streets during the Rites of Spring festival in Hofburg, showing some young people naked or nearly so with the flowers and paint that that time of release permitted...
Karen said reluctantly, "My dear Shavanni--please forgive me, these...intimacies just keep escaping me..." she found herself blushing like a girl child again,
"I'm afraid that I have a problem to deal with. One of my subordinates was, to be blunt, tricked by the Admiral into acting without my approval, and has apparently entered the city of Thendara against my instructions."

Hochswender tried to convey matters of the leopard to Esteban; he was a rather bluff young man, intelligent but good humored and adaptable, so he in turn tried out his casta, grinning at himself as the Darkovern became amused in a friendly comradely way about his accent. Hares? Would the leopard hunt hares? It would love to. In fact the small beast, woken up by all the hubbub, was engaged in chasing a fluttering leaf on the ground, crouching, muscles tensing up and with kittenish energy leaping, its still slightly oversized paws batting at the object playfully, then bounding up to them, delicately sniffing in its feline manner.
Hochswender also solemnly tried to convey that these cats were also loyal friends, though proud, with a very keen sense of smell and hearing, and would learn many commands.

Doctor Kotzebue was watching all this with pleasure and apprehension. He knew, not from laran but something else as ancient and possibly as powerful--friendship--that she was disturbed. Moreover, it drew his attention to the fact that there were differences between them not merely because of environment and technology, but culture as well. The open emotionalism of the Darkovern was extreme by Lavenrunzian standards, but it was not that of savages or children--nevertheless, he clearly saw that it was feeling in the main that they responded to, that this was a society where respect and relationship were more important than efficiency. Karen, who he greatly respected as an adaptable and capable commander, saw this intuitively. But would the Admiral?
His concern deepened when Karen discreetly met with he and Hochswender and explained what von Falkenstein had done.
Hochswender would normally not impugn one of higher rank, but he was furious on his commander's behalf. "It's practically mutiny." he said coldly.
Karen replied in a grim voice, "It is mutiny. Lieutenant, I'm afraid that I'm going to need you and Doctor Kotzebue to come to Thendara with me. But I will not just abandon the mission to Aldaran, nor through away the fruit of our labours because of a popinjay like Falkenstein."
"This matter about Botanist Pfommer disturbs me." said Kotzebue carefully. "Her conduct suggests mutiny as well. There is no reason why she could not have made her views known."
Karen shook her head. She suddenly felt sympathy, of all things, but put it aside for the moment. She knew that it would be hard if she were not a full Lavenrunzian, she herself detested the bigotry that infested in particular the middle classes of Lavenrunz, and understood that while for her exposure to laran and wonderful exotic people was part of the adventure of exploration and a balance between friendship and duty, for Iolanthe Pfommer it could well be salvation.
"I have no idea, nor do any of us until we actually talk to her. It's just all really too bad."
She suddenly felt like Columbus in a negative way. He too had been betrayed by some of those who travelled with him. And she had no illusions: cut off from Earth, possibly forever, it would be a temptation to try to seek power by the most blunt means.
But not on my watch, and not with resources from my ship!

Thendara

Von Falkenstein clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly in the Lavenrunzian manner to the youth he presumed was the King of Thendara. Or prince or whatever.
He nodded to an aide, who brought forward a little folding out table and a laptop computer as slender as a notebook. With a bow, the aide set up the little table and the Count showed them on the screen a star map, showing the great distances crossed to go from one system "Sol" he explained, to another. "Cottman." he added, gesturing.
Then he focused on the system Sol and showed the planets, then the third one, and then a large landmass on it, and said, "Lavenrunz." and gestured towards the leopard banner.
Another several clicks demonstrated the the Imperial Crown, and below it the nobility--he showed his own crest. He had decided not to bother explaining 'colonel of marines'--doubtless the military ranks could be discussed later. Finally, he clicked again on Cottman and, suppressing a smile, showed them first their own planet, fourth from the huge red sun, and the landmass Thendara sat on--and then a satellite picture of the city and its immediate surrounds.

Outside the city, Anna rushed up to the corporal, frightened for Iolanthe, and put a hand on the corporal's arm. "It's alright--let me talk to her, corporal."
"Your Honour, this will have to be reported." the corporal said rather stiffly. "She said something to that foreigner there, and he galloped off! That's not right."
"Yes, yes, but she's my friend, and she hasn't been well...she's a botanist you know, not an intelligence officer." she realized she was babbling and flushed and decided to pull a bit of rank. "You stay there, and yes, make your report but let me get her attention."
Without waiting for a reply, her heart beating and her mouth dry--after all, things were tense and this was an Imperial Marine, hardly noted for hesitation if there was
need to act--just look at Falkenstein! she went up to Iolanthe and said,
"Liebchen, what are you doing? What are you thinking? You must come back immediately."

Back in their room, Rohan and Alekandro discussed all that Lord Aldaran had told them and what they had seen—the huge metal ship dropping from the sky, and the strangers.

“The Council must know!” Rohan urged his bredu. “Alek, I will be alright. Lord Aldaran has formally called me guest, and guest-gifted me. As I understand it, it is as much as his honor is worth, now, to do treachery to me.”

“I do not like leaving you,” Alekandro insisted stubbornly.

Rohan shrugged. “If I stay, I can keep an eye on what goes on, here. If your suspicions are correct, and Dom Gabriel will give these strangers lands— If it is true that they observe no compact, and these terrible strangers’ weapons are as he has described—well, it would be worth something, wouldn’t it, to have someone on the spot to see what is going on?”

“The Council does need to hear what is going on here in the Hellers, certainly. But Lord Aldaran wants me to take his son with me.”

Rohan looked thoughtful. “That may not be a bad thing, Alek. In fact, it may help you actually make it through. Remember how we got here?”

“The bandits? But what if they were operating under Aldaran’s orders?”

“But what if they weren’t, Alek. Have you thought about it? If those bandits were operating on their own, why were we still alive for Aldaran’s people to find? Why didn’t they just kill us?”

Alekandro looked thoughtful. “Ransom?”

“They weren’t Drytowners. Perhaps working with them, but even so, neither of us is really important enough to be a target for that kind of thing. So why were we alive?”

His friend looked nonplused. “I don’t know. They wanted us… for something. But that’s not important anymore, Rohan. Not compared to this.”

“I agree. I think you should go. I’ll be fine.”

Rafe’s eyes widened; he glanced quickly at his uncle. Marcus’s eyes were slightly narrowed, but he nodded the faintest of nods to the young man. There was no way to correct his error, in any case.

Unfamiliar with star maps or anything but the most rudimentary astronomy, the Darkovans only dimly grasped that the stranger was trying to tell them something about the night sky, at first. The words “Sol” and “Cottman” seemed important to him, but they were so much gibberish to everyone else. Since none of the Darkovans had ever seen a planet from space, they didn’t connect the image of Earth with a world, like Darkover, but they gathered that it had something to do with his banner—although what, was difficult to fathom.

The device itself caused some well-suppressed consternation. If it worked from some energy-source like a matrix, clearly that power was not damped by the telepathic dampers of this chamber. Perhaps the strangers’ sorcery was not subject to the same principles as Darkovan matrix science, and the implications of that were shattering to Marcus and Carylla. Rafael was more fascinated by the device itself, and changing images it showed. Incomprehensible, but brilliantly clear and detailed, finer than the best artist in Thendara could render such things.

When the image changed to the view of Thendara, Carylla recognized it instantly. So, after a moment, did the others, with the Castle bulking unmistakably over the City—the walls, the great Guard barracks, other recognizable structures.

“Thendara,” breathed Rafael, then he blinked, glanced at his uncle, and closed his mouth.

Marcus shook his head, slightly irritably. Not at Rafael, at his own inability to comprehend what the stranger was trying to convey.

“Do you speak any understandable language?” he asked, with an apologetic glance at Lyondri, who merely looked cynical. “Do you speak Cahuenga?” He repeated the question in Casta, asking if the stranger spoke that language. He tried the Dry-town dialect, and even a little of the highly-accented Temoran speech. A couple of words was all he knew of the forge-folk’s strange tongue, but he tried them.

He was running out of options when the sound of an arrival, breathing as though he’d been running, could be heard outside the door, and Jeran paused on the threshold.

The Regent looked at him with palpable relief. “Jeran! In a timely hour. You came from Arilinn? Did you see the… the things that carried these strangers?”

Jeran nodded a trifle breathlessly. Responding to Marcus’ gesture, he approached, but as he passed into the Chamber, the telepathic dampers shut down the rapport he had been nursing with Iolanthe. The sudden expression of dismay on his face would have been ludicrous had the moment not been so serious.

“What is it?” Hastur asked quickly.

Jeryn took a deep breath, trying to control his breathing. He’d run every step from leaving his horse at the door.

“My Lord, I believe I can help you communicate with these...” he tried to remember the word, Iolanthe had used it several times… “Laverunzians.” His unaccustomed tongue mangled the pronunciation a bit, but not so much as to be unrecognizable. Von Falkenstein glanced at him sharply.

“But, if I am to be able to help, we must leave the Crystal Chamber.”

Hastur glanced at Carylla, who frowned. She’d already concluded that whatever kind of sorcery the stranger used in his picture device might be immune to the telepathic damper, but whatever had been used to discommode every telepath in the Castle and knock Javanne into a coma was something that had a familiar laran feel to it.

“I do not like it, my Lord Hastur,” she said doubtfully. “Still…” Jeran was an Alton, with the full Alton donas. They could exert enormous mental force when needed; perhaps if the strangers tried anything their combined energies could counter it.

Marcus looked at the impatient stranger. “Very well. We will try.” He gestured to the guards, and made a ‘come along’ gesture to Von Falkenstein.

The next floor down a formal reception suite accommodated them.

“Jeran, if you would be so kind, introduce us to this stranger, and then ask him his business,” the Regent requested.

Shavanni blinked in astonishment. The Lav’runz’i, cristoforos? Was the Holy Bearer of Burdens known on Lavenrunz, then? She felt a warm rush of friendship at the endearment from Karen, but she was also conscious of the woman’s roiling mix of anger and concern about her own people’s—what? Treachery? Foolishness? Insubordination?

“Do not be concerned, Karen preciosa—you are my friend, and I am yours. Such expressions are natural between friends.” Then the impact of what Karen had said hit her.

“Thendara? Your people have gone to Thendara?” She blinked. “If any of your people want to make homes in the lowlands,” she sounded doubtful, as though wondering how anyone could want to live in the (to her) hot, crowded, barren lands below the Khilgards, “they will need to talk to the Hastur-Lords in Thendara. But…without your permission? Is that not—?” She tried to think of how to convey the concept.

“Here, when one takes their sword from another, it would be considered a betrayal—an—an—oathbreaking—to act so, without their Lord’s or Lady’s permission.” Her tone made it clear how the act of oathbreaking was regarded among the Darkovans.

“In any case, your Admiral is coming here, is he not? To speak to Dom Gabriel? Why would he want… Oh, I am sorry, Karen. So many questions. I only want to understand what worries you, my friend, truly. I am not trying to pry into private Lav’runz’i things. I know that you have your loyalties and oaths, as I have mine.” She glanced at Dom Gabriel, who had been approached by Ann’kas Darriell. The coridom was saying something in a low voice, and whatever it was, he looked a trifle grim. He gave a curt nod, and sent Darriell away with a gesture.

Esteban gathered the general gist of what Hochswender was trying to convey—by now they could, speaking slowly and mixing their limited knowledge of one another’s language, generally manage to get the main ideas across. Although he wasn’t quite sure Hochswender understood what he meant by “rabbithorn,” the Darkovan beast that had impressed his own long-ago Terran ancestors as being a cross between a rabbit and a sheep. Still, even as young as it evidently was, the creature had a formidable set of claws and the speed and movement of a hunter.

He was half-squatting, watching the leopard, and occasionally looking over at Hochswender. He extended a hand to the kitten, and was amused when it batted, with claws retracted, in obvious playfulness. He’d have to teach it some games that would hone its hunting instincts, since it had none other of its kind around.

He stood, and noticed Ann’kas’ conversation with his father. Brows snapping together, he strode over. “What is it, Father?”

Dom Gabriel was frowning. “Ranald has brought in the thieves who stole the tokens from the forge-folk of Icetrail Pass.” He saw Esteban’s puzzlement. “I forget. That happened after you and Shavanni had left for Arilinn. The Priestess of the Icetrail folk came to me to report the theft, and I set Ranald out to see if he could track down the perpetrator. It seems he’s found them—three of them. And the Icetrails folk want me to turn them over to them.”

“I will have to hear their case today. The matter cannot wait, and in any case I want to send Ranald to Thendara with Dom Alekandro, to tell Comyn Council about the Lav’runz’i.”

He looked around, and noticed the Lavenrunzian officers talking together with serious expressions. It was plain that not all the news that had come with their ship was good. Knowing human nature as he did, Dom Gabriel was not surprised. It must be a tremendous enterprise for them. There would be ambitious folk among them, and not all would want the same things. Was Karen the kind of leader who could still hold her people together under such a challenge? Was this “Admiral” of hers such a man?

And if there were no such leader among the strangers—that would greatly increase the threat to Darkover, certainly.

Count Falkenstein looked at the newcomer with curiousity. "Do you understand my words? If you do, convey that I am Colonel Count Falkenstein of the Imperial Lavenrunzian Marines, sent as envoy by my Admiral to the ruler. We have come from a faraway world in a fleet of vessels that sail in the void of space. It is our intention to settle this planet, and we have come to negotiate where that will be."

Aldaran

Karen smiled and showed her her own cross, hidden beneath her clothing, and then added, "Yes, many of us are. Only we call Him Jesus the Christ."
Becoming grave as the treachery of Falkenstein was mentioned, she sighed and said, "Unfortunately, in a regular situation this couldn't happen save in the most underhanded subtle ways, but here..." she looked chagrined. "Here there are more temptations. We are far from our regular society, and some might feel a chance to grasp more power. And I must be honest: Falkenstein and I have never gotten along. He has been a difficult subordinate even when we were back home during the training for the mission. For us too, it is 'oathbreaking'. We simply call it mutiny though, the willful action against one's commander. Unless he can really explain himself brilliantly..." but Karen could scarcely conceal her worry from her friend. Falkenstein was a marine; would they follow him or their Captain?
Karen walked up to Dom Gabriel, requesting Shavanni help her talk to him, and said, "I regret, Dom Gabriel, the need for me to depart at once. One of my officers has acted against my orders and may endanger all that I have planned. I must go to Thendara. And I must go within the next half hour."
In fact the pilots had hurried back to the dropship and were getting the marines to hurry the last of the gear off.

Dom Gabriel was at a stand. He’d hoped that Alekandro and his own son, Ranald, could convey the news of the Lav’runz’i arrival to the lowlanders with some time to plan, to consult, to prepare a more measured response to these people and the threats they posed to Darkover and its people, its way of life. But events wait for no man, he reminded himself, thinking quickly.

Even if Alekandro and Ranald arrived late, the must still go. Nevertheless, if some basic information could be conveyed…

He bowed. “This I understand, Domna Hohenloe. To some things, a commander must respond instantly, and decisively. Designate your coridom here, and I and my people will assist him to make the rest of your folk comfortable in Caer Donn until you can return.”

“If you will, and if you deem it appropriate, you might also carry word to Thendara of the well-being of Dom Alekandro Ardais and Dom Rohan Lindir-Aillard—the men we found among the bandits’ baggage. Tell Lord Alton or his son particularly, as they are Alton’s men. They will be returning to Thendara as soon as they are able to travel; my son Ranald Scathfell will accompany them to bring my words to Comyn Council.” The Lord of Aldaran smiled, a trifle grimly, and met Karen’s eyes steadily. “I pledge you my word that there is no harm that I know of, in this message, to you or your people, or to the folk of the lowlands.”

He debated, for a bare second, adding a message to convey his good will to the Council; but he decided that it might place Karen in an awkward position, depending on how her people were being received by the Hastur-kindred. Instead, he merely added. “All that has occurred among your people and mine, since your arrival, are matters that I feel no need to conceal from anyone in Thendara—for Aldaran’s part, you may share as much or as little as seems expedient to you, with my good will.”

He gestured Ann’kas forward, to ensure that Karen’s arrangements for the care of her people were accurately conveyed, and indicated that Shavanni and a couple of the Aldaran guardsmen should stay with them to assist in translating.

The curious were waved back from the landing site, and the folk of the Castle and Caer Donn were treated to the sight of the strangers’ amazing craft rising into the air again.

When it was gone, Dom Gabriel turned to Esteban. “Come with me. The Icetrail folk, and the thieves brought to judgment, await.”


Since, when the matter of the thievery was disposed of, the Lord of Aldaran wished to inform Alekandro of what had occurred among Karen’s people and their advent in Thendara, he invited the two lowlanders to be present for the full session. Such sessions were always open to any who wished to attend; there were a number of other small matters to be dealt with as well.

The formal reception hall Dom Gabriel used for such occasions was an impressive place. He sat, with Esteban, the clerk Aidan, Domna Margali, and Beltran of the Guards, behind a massive, carven table, with the Aldaran device carved into the wooden shield that formed the central part of the carving that faced those approaching the table. Tall, narrow mullioned windows let in light on one side of the hall, on the other benches and alert guardsmen waited for the business of the day.

On one of the benches sat three people who looked strangely unlike the other Darkovans in the hall. They were small, very dark of hair and eyes, very swarthy of skin, and the similarity of their features seemed to indicate kinship, or perhaps even some separate race of Darkovan. Two were men, of middle years. The breadth of their shoulders and the sturdiness of their muscular frames belied their small stature. Either of them could have lifted the massive table overhead with little effort, it was clear with even a cursory glance.

The third was a figure swathed in an enveloping hooded cloak, slighter than the others. The Priestess of the forge-folk of Icetrail Pass was old, so old that the distinguishing characteristics of gender had become irrelevant time before memory. Yet there was nothing of decrepitude about her. She sat arrow-straight, and silent, next to the men who had accompanied her into Aldaran Castle.

There was a stir, at the door, and the guardsmen there stood aside to admit four of their fellows and Ranald Scathfell, grouped around the three men who had been apprehended near the village of Corrie. Ranald carried, with great care, a largish bundle wrapped in thick, oddly-sheened cloth. Halfway to the table, they stopped, and Ranald bowed, formally.

“My Lord, I bring before you men accused of taking the forge-tokens of Icetrail Pass. They have been questioned, but refuse to yield their names. However, Piedro Vikar of the Guards says that he recognizes one of them—” Ranald gestured to the foremost, “—as one Jamis Ruyad, outlawed five summers ago by Lord Rockraven for the crime of kinslaying.”

The man indicated, a short, thickset, powerfully-built man, set his jaw pugnaciously. All three of the men’s hands were bound behind them, but he straightened his shoulders defiantly. They all had the look of men who had been living a rough and difficult life for some time.

Dom Gabriel surveyed them closely, and then nodded for Ranald to continue.

“Here, my Lord, are the items we found in their possession,” he indicated the bundle.

Obeying his father’s gesture, he approached the table, and laid the bundle upon it, carefully unwrapping the thick cloth.

Inside were two objects. One, obviously of ceremonial significance, was a mattock—not a full-sized tool, but a model, as long as a man’s forearm from elbow to fingertip, and exquisitely detailed. A wooden handle, black with age but hard as iron, was carven with swirling motifs that might have represented flames. The steel toolhead was chased with finely-incised patterns of chain links and more swirling, abstract patterns. Set into the top of the toolhead was a glowing blue stone, cabochon-cut and polished to brilliance, as big as the end of a man’s thumb. The other item, less elaborate but older-looking, was a medallion of dull iron, somewhat crudely fashioned and hung from a thick chain. In the middle was a constellation of three small, rather roughly-faceted blue stones, linked by an inlaid burst of copper flame.

Domna Margali’s eyes widened; almost involuntarily, her hand moved, as though to touch the items, then arrested, and returned to her lap.

“Do not expose the sacred tokens!” snapped a heavily-accented, powerful voice. There was a rustle, the priestess of the forge-folk had risen to her feet. She was pointing to the objects. “These are not such as to be offered to the gaze of the curious or the impious, Lord of Aldaran.” She had thrown the hood of her cloak back, and the network of fine wrinkles that seamed her face could not quench the sudden clarity of her gaze, cataract-filmed as it was.

Dom Gabriel nodded to Ranald, whose hand had gone to his dagger-hilt. With a nod he draped the heavy cloth over them again.

“No impiety was meant, Mestra,” said Dom Gabriel gravely. “But in order for justice to proceed, it needs for the evidence of their thievery to be presented. Your tokens will be returned to your folk.”

The priestess bowed. “And for this we thank you, Lord of Aldaran, and your son, for their recovery. Our people stand in your debt. Yet, in order for the sacrilege to be cleansed, the thieves must return with us to Icetrail Pass. They belonged to the Chained One, now.” Her almost-blind gaze searched the three, standing among the Aldaran guardsmen, out, and they shifted uneasily.

Dom Gabriel frowned. “It is not our custom of justice to do so. Although if they are outlaws, they merit death, that sentence should be carried out according to custom.”

“The sacrilege,” the priestess insisted stubbornly, “must be cleansed. Or the lodes of Icetrail Pass will cease to yield, and the tokens will lose their power. What matters it to you, Lord Aldaran, if their headless bodies rot on your walls or if they return to the Chained One who has claimed them now? Only Her vengeance will satisfy justice.”

The two men of the forge folk had risen, now, and came to stand one pace behind the Priestess, one on either side of her.

Dom Gabriel looked at the three men. “You were found in possession of these stolen items. At least one of you is already under the ban of outlawry. In the theft of these items, murder and assault were committed. Do you admit your guilt?”

“I admit nothing,” the one already identified as Jamis Ruyad spat. “Your ‘justice’ and the vengeance of these superstitious fools alike are nothing to me.”

Dom Gabriel looked at the others, who stood defiantly mute. “Do you, then, claim you are innocent of these crimes? Would you swear to your innocence under the light of the leronis’ jewel?” He indicated Domna Margali.

The three men, practically as one, flinched. Their eyes dropped. “No filthy sorcery,” muttered the largest of the three, who had given his name only as Bain. “We took them.”

Esteban glanced at his father for permission, then rapped out a question. “Why? Why did you steal them?”

The three stood mute.

“Were you told to steal them? Were you acting under orders? You must have known that no sane man or woman in the mountains would have touched them, bought them, exchanged goods for them.” Esteban persisted.

Bain, who appeared now to be the leader, shook his head stubbornly. “No. We just took them.”

Esteban’s eyes narrowed. Glancing at his father and receiving another nod, he continued. “You went all the way to Icetrail Pass, broke into the Sanctuary there and slew the guardians, just to obtain goods that you cannot use and none would buy from you?” His voice was rich with scorn. “A likely tale. You were acting under orders, weren’t you? Orders from some bandit leader you server. Perhaps Hawkfist himself, even.” He watched the men closely.

In the eyes of the third man, who had not spoken yet, he saw fear awaken. The man looked uncertainly at Bain, whose eyes had narrowed. He was shaking his head, slowly. “We serve none. We will tell you nothing. Slay us, if that is your ‘justice.’”

Dom Gabriel consulted, briefly, with Ranald and Esteban.

“They were closely questioned by my men, father,” Ranald said grimly. “They revealed nothing, and it was clear that their terror of speaking was greater than their terror of death. Whoever can inspire such fear, is behind this theft.”

“Hawkfist, I will wager my best sword,” Esteban said. “But why? What can he want with the tokens of the forge-folk?”

Domna Margali leaned forward. “Indeed, my Lord. And what could he want with the Alton folk his men brought at such trouble from their lowland raids? I think there is more here than a simple desire to set trouble amongst the Altons and our folk.” She glanced at the wrapped bundle, and then at the priestess.

“I had no notion,” she said, a trifle abstractedly, as though her thoughts raced ahead, “that the forge-tokens of Icetrail Pass were…” She halted abruptly. “Well. This is for later discussion, I think. But it is certain that these men are acting under orders, Hawkfist’s or some other’s. That can have been no comfortable burden, even for the head-blind.”

The four of them—Dom Gabriel, the leronis, Esteban and Ranald, exchanged glances. Dom Gabriel sat back, and addressed himself to the thieves.

“You have already proven yourselves outlaws, and by your own actions you are murderers and thieves. It is not usual, but I believe in this case it is appropriate, that you should endure the vengeance of those whom you have wronged.” He nodded to the Priestess, a trifle grimly. “Take them, and your tokens.”

All three of the forge-folk bowed. “Icetrail Pass bears witness to the justice of the Lord of the Mountains,” said the priestess. Carefully, with the hand of one of her companions on her elbow, she approached the table and picked up the bundle, cradling it reverently in her arms.

Slowly, they left the hall, pausing again at the door to bow to the Lord of Aldaran, followed by the guardsmen and the condemned men.

Jeran relayed Count Falkenstein’s words faithfully. Silently, he also added, “My Lord, at least one among this man’s people has little trust in him. Yet he speaks truth as to their intentions.”

Marcus Hastur glanced keenly at him. “There is clearly much to discuss, here, Jeran. Remain, please, when we are done here.”

Jeran assented, and Hastur turned his gaze consideringly to the Lavenrunzian. He didn’t think much of the man as a diplomat, if Jeran’s translation of his words was accurate. Aside from the matter of ‘sailing through the void of space’ (a concept that bore its own disturbing implications,) exposing his assumption that his people had a right to settle on whatever world they chose was—indelicate—to say the least. Unless, perhaps, the man wished to precipitate conflict?

Now that, he thought, as he reviewed all he had learned from his contact with Lyondri, was entirely possible. The man’s actions were consistent with such an end. Which could only mean that he believed their force of arms was inordinately superior to anything the people of Darkover could muster.

And that, perhaps, he acknowledged to himself ruefully, could very well be true. A level of sorcery—or technical achievement, or both combined—that could bring men through the void of space from world to world, could be assumed to produce extraordinary tools of war. And it seemed safe to assume that these folk had no Compact, such as Darkovans honored, to prevent them from using sorcery (or technical achievement) as a tool of war.

Oh yes, there was great danger, here. And not least among their own people. Would other Darkovans see it?

“Ruyven?” he queried silently to his paxman, standing a pace behind and to the left of his chair, silent and immobile as a statue.

“Such insolence, Marcus!” The man’s mental tone carried all the anger and indignation that his imperturbable stance concealed. “You will send them on their way, of course?”

“There is no ‘of course’ about it, Ruyven. The sorcery these folk have already displayed is disturbing, to say the least. They mean to stay, will we or nil we. Would you face them in battle?”

“Gladly, Marcus,” the finest swordsman on Darkover’s tone was amused.

“Would you face their machines and their sorcery?”

There was a perceptible hesitation in Ruyven di Asturien’s thoughts. “But— But the Compact….? Ah. Yes, I see, Marcus. Aldones guard us!”

“Exactly, my friend. From your thoughts to the God’s intent.” Hastur’s gaze had never wavered from Falkenstein’s face; the pause had been long but not painfully so.

“This is an interesting request, Count Falkenstein. We must consider it, in Council. You are welcome to remain here, or to return to your folk, while it is deliberated. A few days should suffice, we will make it a matter of, ah—urgent priority, of course.”

His tone was calm, grave but not unduly so—the tone of a judge, taking Falkenstein seriously, but not alarmed or discommoded in any way. With a regal nod, he rose, and gathering the others with a thought, they withdrew.

By Darkovan customs—the customs of the Domains, at any rate—the man had been almost unforgivably rude and abrupt, presenting his demand with no preliminary courtesies, and none of the equivocal circumlocution that would allow all parties concerned to discuss the matter without loss of face or dignity. He wondered if the man understood the subtle retaliation of his response, in its brevity and lack of the formal courtesies that would have been extended to any Darkovan.

To Lyondri, waiting outside to escort the Lavenrunzian to guest chambers or back to his ship, he said, subvocally, “Observe him as closely as you can without discourtesy, and do nothing to provoke or offend. He may be looking for a fight; it is not my will that he should succeed in such a goal—as yet.”

Count Falkenstein was taken aback. Basically, he had been told "Oh, how interesting...could you come back later when we've had time to think about it?" He did not show that he was taken aback; he merely bowed formally and departed, saying through the interpreter--whom he found utterly suspicious--that he preferred to wait until his potential hosts were more at ease with his arrival.
However, though he said little till he had returned the horse and walked with his small escort the rest of the way back to the shuttle, he was trying to calm his fury.
Von Hackelgruber did little to ease it when he saluted in greeting and said, "Excellency, there's a scientist in the company who apparently knows the local language, and was fraternizing."
"Oho..." Falkenstein now saw the light. "Was she indeed! Well, is she apprehended?"
"I sent one of the NCOs to do so, my Colonel." replied the young marine officer.
Falkenstein turned round to gaze one more time at the city of Thendara, then walked up to the shuttle. As he did, the pilot, a young female warrant officer, walked down the ramp and said, blushing, "Pardon, Excellency, there's a problem."
The Colonel merely lifted an eyebrow.
"Our signal to the ship has been broken by something--and the other shuttle has gone."
Count Falkenstein smashed a hand against the hull. "DAMN!" he shouted.

meanwhile...

The dropship's interior had two facing rows of seats, which were fairly comfortable, and in fact had an odd yield about them, which Karen explained to Shavanni was a liquid inside that protected people from extreme energies called G forces. Once everyone was strapped in, the ship had taken off, exelerating rapidly and leaping into the sky, the mountains and the castle flashing past the windows.
Karen was very busy during the first half hour, contacting the Beowulf.
"Lieutenant Groll--this is the Captain."
She almost rejoiced to hear the calm reply, "It is good to hear from you, my Captain."
"Thank you." she said. "Groll--I want you to cut Falkenstein off completely. Make sure he can't get so much as a bottle of mineral water from the ship."
"Understood, my Captain. But he still has a large transport shuttle on the ground, big enough to carry most of the marines and a landing party of civilians."
"Very well...direct orders should deal with that." Karen was suddenly worried though--she could almost hear an unspoken concern in Groll's voice. "Or is there something else?"
"Captain..." Groll hesitated. Then spoke quickly in a low voice. "Falkenstein sent a signal that was not directed to us, and which was done on an encrypted code we were not able to immediately decipher."
Karen felt a cold rage build in her. "I see...then make sure he stays jammed, and have Lieutenant Schow work on that signal. Also...have Chief Goetz put the remaining marines on a strict detail, keep them busy."
Doctor Kotzebue said drily, "Is this where you say 'O, smiling pernicious villain'?"
Karen bit back a retort, and then saw he actually looked serious. "Ah...no, you are right, my dear friend. I must not lose my temper now."
Hochswender said gravely. "Also, Captain, let's not presume yet that it is mutiny on anyone's part but Colonel Falkenstein's."
Sergeant Kammler checked all the marines--then caught a few winks as they travelled...

Melor, Lord Alton


For a moment, he forgot that Caitlyn remained in the chamber with him; mind reeling from the unveiling of a past until now hidden from him.
Memories clear now, more focused that any other recollections of that long ago time composed as though Lord Alton had already known them, forced the elderly man to stumble away from the Arilinn Keeper; seek out the support of a chair.

"Aldones," he gasped, shock broke his powerful voice into stammered slivers of rasping sound. How many violations in a handful of memories? By all of Zandru's Hells, I took a Keeper! He relived the moment of Raineach's embrace as the ghost wind claimed her. Found within them both a kernel of awareness of what they were doing and felt the beginnings of a terrible guilt. We knew what was happening, we knew.

"It cannot be."

Rejecting the memories, he tried to ignore the ring of truth that clung indelibly to every strand. He scowled, glanced at Caitlyn; anger rose directed at her. By what right? Even her eyes seemed cold to him. Keepers were less than human, he'd known this from the first…but Raineach!

He could not sustain his fury as he sunk into another memory; the moment Raineach reached into his mind with the very donas that should have been his own.

Am I more jealous than outraged by what the woman has done?
Reality had come undone, his world thrown askew and his fate now lay in the hands of a woman he did not believe he could trust. She was a Keeper, by her very office withdrawn from the world he lived in.

He relived the terrible touch of Raineach, a Keeper driven insane; he sensed, tasted it on her like a sharp, biting fragrance. Her terrible despair was a shroud wrapped round him. Her dreadful choice to face death rather than leave her tower, made her human in a way that he knew Caitlyn could not understand. Throat clenched and words he'd tried to shout out long ago, settled on his tongue, "Don't do it, Raineach. I'll open Armida to you."

Had it really been his desire to bring the Keeper into the Alton family, or simply his desperate need to cleanse the guilt and drive away the shame?
Yet, he could not doubt that he pitied her…

"Oh sweet Cassilda, how wretched are the lives we throw to the winds," he sighed. Glanced coldly at Caitlyn, opened his mouth to ask her why she had ever come; bitterness was the bile on his tongue.

Then his mind, sharpened by decades in the Council, grasped the heart of their situation. His breath caught as the terrible betrayal became clear to him; Raineach had not died in the relays! A lesser woman would have been broken then.
Melor frowned at the admiration that underlay this thread of thought; shook it aside as he raised his eyes once more to meet Caitlyn's.

"Why didn't she reveal it then? In that moment when the treachery of the towers became clear to her?" he asked, even as the answer came silently to him. Because the comyn would have silenced her. He realised, knowing that even a decade ago, a very different Darkover had existed.

Yet it was Raineach's final thoughts; occluded no more, that brought perspective to Lord Alton. She'd focused on what had come from that cursed moment in the ghost wind; Lirielle.
In Raineach's mind overwhelming everything was a mother's love for a daughter.

Horror twisted Melor, brought a cold rage to the surface that was for Caitlyn alone.
"I revoke my blessings Caitlyn Hastur, you will not have my child to break as the towers have tormented Raineach." His voice reverberated through the chamber, rattled the windows. I would rather she hates me forever than see her cursed as her mother was.

He sighed then, let the fiery remnants of his temper go.
"What will you do?" But he knew that it did not matter what Cailtyn wanted now, the question that needed an answer was what he would do now?
Raineach, Raineach, if only…





Alekandro

At first Alekandro had thought that the subtle aching about his temples merely heralded the end of his enthralment to the raivannin; the background noise of a multitude of minds slowly finding their way back into mind. But relief had quickly faded when the young Hali'imyn realised that the matris jewels fitted to the forge-folk charms were the true source of his discomfort.

His renewed laran glimpsed more, the shock of the Aldaran leronis as she glimpsed the objects.
When the last of the Forge-folk had left the chamber, Alekandro found himself wondering if it had been wise to allow them to keep their charms, the larger of the matrix stones in particular.

Understanding that it was not his place to question the Lord of Aldaran he turned his thoughts instead to his decision to leave Rohan and travel with Ranald.

Iolanthe

Listening to Anna, Iolanthe was suddenly aware of how xenophobic the colonists had become. Would we be forbidden to speak with foreigners back on Lavenrunz? Have I misjudged things so deeply?

"Anna, you speak as if we're already at war with these people. Is there any real reason why I shouldn't speak to any I care to name friend?" She glanced at the marine, felt threatened by him. "Von Falkenstein has a fixed idea about this world and its people; everyone here is looking through his eyes, seeing only enemies. Look around you Anna, this world isn't attacking us…it seems to me that it's quite the reverse." We should be making friends, not giving Darkover a reason to despise us.

She froze as the rapport between herself and Jeran vanished; breathed a sigh of relief when she felt him reaching for her again a moment later.
Von Falkenstein, she could see him through Jeran's eyes. Arrogant, filled with self-importance. She realised how foolish he would seem, where it not for the very real threat that he brought with him.

Her focus returned to her surroundings, fixed on Anna. Why so surprised, I've not kept secret my fascination for this world. I am enthralled with these people, they are from my dreams. Now I can live among them.
She frowned.

"Do you think I am betraying you, Anna; you and all who've come to this world from Lavenrunz?" She asked, trying to find some sliver of the rapport she'd fashioned with Jeran in her friend. How alien I am to my own culture.
She divided her attention, whispering translations to Jeran while waiting for Anna's reply.

Caitlin was intrigued by Lord Alton’s response to the revelations. His confusion and rage she sympathized with, deeply. His utter lack of fear for himself puzzled her. Was he a man of incredible valor, or did the possibility of being torn on hooks simply not occur to him?

In any case, it was a good thing. He was already deeply agitated; trying to explain all that she had to explain to a man in terror for his own life would be nearly impossible.

Calmly, she waited for his rage and bitter ravings to subside. As he babbled about the ‘treachery of the Towers’ and ‘revoking his blessing,’ somewhere deep within, a cynical voice said “This man and Raineach perhaps belong together.” She repressed it sternly. He had been deeply injured; it was not at all surprising that he should vent his pain on the one who had exposed the injury to him.

“What I do depends in a large part upon you, my Lord. Raineach’s crimes could not have been revealed at a worse time. We at Arilinn have been preparing for years, now, to bring about the changes that will transform the lives of all Keepers and open up the Towers to all who wish to use their gift of laran to serve the people of Darkover. My Lord, you are old enough to remember the day when the mob haled Ellesandra Aillard forth from Tramontana and impaled her before her own gate merely because she had been alone with a man not her kinsman, outside her Tower, for a night.”

For a moment the Keeper of Arilinn’s face was charged with a supernal anguish of remembrance and horror, before the mask of calm returned. “You have attended and judged at the higher cortes. What is the most common oath now taken there? ‘By the virginity of the Keeper of Arilinn.’ The cult of the holy virgin, the mindless superstition that has kept our Keepers ignorant and apart for centuries, is stronger than ever.”

“Only Arilinn and its Keeper can make the slow and careful changes needed to bring this change about without setting off a bloodbath, without setting brother against brother in a terrible fratricidal conflict between those who believe a Keeper’s virginity matters more than her abilities, and those who wish to see the day when any woman with the ability can fulfill the Keeper’s Office constrained only by the rules that bind all members of a Tower Circle. Lirielle was to be the first of the Keepers trained under new methods, learning the ways that would some day free her—and Keepers she might someday in her turn train—to live as other women of the Towers live.”

“To expose Raineach’s crimes now in full Comyn Council would bring this work crashing down around our ears and lock the Domains in suicidal kinstrife for generations, until the laran-gifted are exterminated by such folly. I swore, on that day when Ellesandra died, that no Keeper would ever suffer such a fate again.”

Her face, already somber, grew very grave. “But I cannot allow a woman who has broken every solemn Oath demanded of her—as comynara, as monitor, as Keeper—to continue in charge of a Tower. You are entitled to justice, my Lord. If you seek vengeance for the wrong she did you, and the wrong she has done Lirielle, you may go to the Council to ask for it. I will oppose it. And you will place yourself at risk of the penalty demanded of a man who violates a Keeper, willing or unwilling. Although I do not think,” she said thoughtfully, “That Hastur would insist upon such penalty. Still, it would be within the law. And if it is brought before the Council, it will become public knowledge in the streets of Thendara, and eventually all of the Domains. You and Raineach, both, would be at the risk of the kind of mob violence that bloodied the gate of Tramontana.”

“Rather, the justice I would seek would be to petition Hastur privately to allow me to settle this matter. To have Raineach removed from Neskaya, and placed under wardship. Perhaps, with time and healing, her madness will abate, and she can return to other useful tasks in advancing the Towers out of the dark ages that have overtaken them. Never again to hold responsibility, of course—she has forfeited all rights to that—but perhaps she can atone for her crimes and live a useful life. Perhaps, if you allow, even to be a mother to Lirielle, once it is certain that her madness is gone and she cannot damage her daughter. But that mercy I would leave to you, my Lord, who have been Lirielle’s only parent.”

“In speaking of this, my Lord, I would bring one other thing to your attention: The matter of freeing our Keepers, keeping kinstrife at bay, and reviving the strength of our Towers has acquired a terrible urgency. It has been seen, with a laran gift that cannot be denied, that our world is about to change greatly. Men will be coming from the skies, from another world, to Darkover. They will bring with them a terrible threat, and perhaps also a promise. But only if we of the comyn have all of the tools of our heritage available to help our people deal as equals with these strangers, and preserve that which is Darkover.”

“When I leave here, I must go to Thendara, to bring this news to Hastur—if, indeed, it is not already there. It is my wish to propose, at this Council, certain changes that will pave the way for the changes in the Towers, without (I hope) exciting the suspicions of those who feel the ‘holy virgin’ cult serves their interests. I would also like to bring Hastur, and Hastur alone, the news of Raineach’s crimes, and the solution I propose to avert her death.”

“For that, however, I must have your consent.”

Anna was incredulous. "You think I am just accusing you? Iolanthe...we don't even know these people. How can you claim to know this man? You speak his language, you act as if you had seen him before, and yet that is impossible!" she was torn between fright, concern and indignation. As she spoke though, the corporal was joined by two burly marine privates, and the corporal stomped up, furious at being waved off so casually before.
"Iolanthe Pfommer, you are to be in the custody of the Imperial Marines until further notice." he said sternly.
"Corporal, please give us a moment." pleaded Anna.
"Forgive me, your Honour, I may not. Academican Pfommer, I assure you that there will be no harm to your person, but you must be detained."

Marcus waved away all but his paxman and Rafael, gesturing for them to follow he and Jeran into his private study. When they were seated, and a servant had brought wine (for he’d noted a thin strain of exhaustion at the corners of Jeran’s mouth and eyes,) he looked the young heir to Alton over with speculative wonder. “By the crimson claws of the wolf of Alar, Jeran! How comes this about? What in the name of all the Gods is going on?”

Sipping the wine gratefully, Jeran told him all that had happened since he had first sensed Iolanthe’s presence, back at Arilinn. Well, he left out a couple of purely personal details. But all that she had told him of the Lavenrunzians and their journey, their intent to make homes here, how they lived with their machines and their terrible weapons, this he told the Regent of Hastur and the heir to the throne. And what she had told him of Falkenstein and her mistrust of his motives, and the xenophobic strain she felt in the Lavenrunzian people.

Hastur listened intently, interrupting only occasionally with a brief, pungent question to clarify some point. Rafael listened, too, his initial excitement at the thought of men from another world moderating into his own concerns—different, perhaps, from Hastur’s, but no less worrisome.

“Aldones guard us!” the Regent murmured, when Jeran’s recitation was complete. He studied the young man closely, noting the deepening lines of weariness in his face. “You are fordone, Jeran. You need a meal and a rest. I hate to keep you from it, but doubtless Lyondri is also waiting to give you a report on the state of the Guards, as soon as may be. When you’ve looked after that, and had a chance to eat and sleep, please return to me. This matter will need a good deal more discussion—and planning.”

“It will indeed,” Jeran said, a trifle grimly. Iolanthe had just told him of her detention by the Lavenrunzian marines. He needed time alone, time to sort out what was happening to him, the many responsibilities that he bore and this new, incredible thing—Iolanthe. But Hastur was correct, the first and most urgent priority was to see to the Guards. In his father’s absence, he was Commander. He had to receive Lyondri’s report and ensure that all the dispositions of the men had been made to best advantage. With a respectful bow, he left the Regent and young Rafael.

When he was gone, Rafe looked uncertainly at his uncle. “Sir, I should report to the barracks, also.”

Marcus Hastur shook his head, grimly. “No, your Highness. It is perhaps a little early, but there will be no time, once you officially assume the throne, for you to learn all that you will need to know. We must begin now. I will speak to Jeran about it, later. But as of now, you must attend all of our deliberations, although when others are present you must remain quiet, naturally.”

Rafe swallowed, and nodded. He was “your Highness” again, and this time it was not for any real or imagined fault of his. Somehow, this new kind of “your Highness” was even less pleasant than the admonitory kind. Yet, at the same time—it was exciting. He would know as much as any on Darkover about these mysterious, dangerous strangers. Were they as dangerous as his uncle seemed to think?

He’d sensed, as Jeran had told them about the Lavenrunzian woman and her strange laran, that there was more to it than the heir to Alton was revealing. Not laran-sensed, just ordinary human intuition sensed. With his faulty and intermittent laran, Rafe tended to rely on that kind of observation a lot. Is it possible, he wondered briefly, that we become so accustomed to sensing through laran that we lose something of the basic human perceptions? But whatever it was, he was intrigued by the thought that, dangerous though they undoubtedly were, there might be more to these strangers than pure, naked threat.

“Yes, Uncle,” he said aloud.

The Regent of the Domains nodded, and sat silent for a moment, staring beyond the walls of the study, collecting his thoughts. “Very well. Here, at least, you may speak freely. And you, my friend,” he said, glancing up at Ruyven, and indicating that he should take a seat. Di Asturien glanced curiously at Rafe, as he sat. He was not certain it was wise, allowing the boy to be so deeply involved in such important matters. Rumor among many of the comyn, he knew, had the young Elhalyn next door to imbecility—a clown, at best. While his own close contact with Hastur had exposed him to the boy sufficiently to dispel such suspicions, how would some of the starchier Council members look upon it?

He looked at his friend, his Lord, the man whose thoughts he shared more intimately than a brother. “What is it you fear, Marcus? The weapons of these strangers? Their technology?” It seemed oddly unlike the warrior Ruyven knew.

Slowly, Hastur shook his head. “None of that, Ruyven. In truth, my fears are not so much of what the strangers might do, as what some of our own people might do. Will this break the Compact, and return Darkover to the depths of madness and destruction? Do you trust some of our kinsmen to forego using every weapon at their disposal—including laran—to defeat these strangers or make them go away?”

His paxman frowned. “What if they don’t? Is this not a place where perhaps the Compact is indeed outdated? Is it not permissible to set it aside when the very survival of Darkover and Darkovans is at stake?”

“But…!” Rafe started, then lapsed into silence, looking from one to the other. Marcus nodded, grimly. “No, go ahead, Rafe. I said you should speak freely. What is it?”

The young man bit his lip hesitantly, then said slowly, “But, Sir… from what Jeran tells us of these folk and their weapons—will even laran work against them, if they are determined to fight and use all of the weapons they have? Few of our Towers are operating at full strength. Most, if not all, of the knowledge of the old laran weapons is lost—how long would it take to rediscover it? To train enough telepaths in its use? Would we be granted such time, even if we were all agreed to break the Compact? And…” his eyes seemed to grow darker as he spoke, “…even if we prevailed, could we then trust all of our kinsmen to abjure such weapons, and re-establish the Compact? Before there are more Dead Lands than life-supporting ones?”

“There.” Marcus nodded, and smiled, but not happily. “I am glad you are not a fool, Rafe. But I do not trust all on the Council, or all of our kinsfolk, to see this so readily. And think on this:” he turned to Ruyven, “if these strangers suspect that those who can use laran are the most potent weapons we have, where will their blows fall hardest?”

Ruyven’s face had gone pale. The implication was not lost on him. “Perhaps… perhaps it is not as bad as we think. We have only Jeran’s word for this, and he has only the word of one of the strangers. Perhaps she is part of some plan of theirs, to make us believe we cannot win…” He was grasping at straws.

“Ruyven,” Marcus said patiently, “They came through the stars from another world. Whatever sorcery or technology, or both, they control, they obviously believe is sufficiently formidable to gain them their ends. Do you seriously want to take that risk, at a time when our Towers are all but defunct, and laran is dying out or becoming regarded as a parlor trick among our noble families? It takes months, even years, to train a skilled laran mechanic or technician, much less a Keeper who can weld together the energies of a full Circle—and a full Circle is needed for any large-scale laran work. How many of them do we have? It takes seven years to train one. Think, bredu.”

“But there cannot be so many of them…” Ruyven was still having trouble coming to terms with a prospect so disturbing.

“Thousands, Ruyven. How many laran-gifted have we? Skilled enough to fight with such weapons, even if we had them? And once it became clear that we were using such weapons, what would the strangers do first? No. Setting aside the Compact is not the answer.” He sighed. “But can I get our kinsmen to see it?”

Karen had wondered what the people in Thendara would think, seeing another craft land. But she had not had time for that.

Falkenstein had saluted neatly. She had not torn into him, though she wished to. Rather, she took him aside.
"Colonel, on whose authority did you land on D--on Cottman IV?"
"On that of Admiral Schiller, Captain Hohenloe." replied Colonel Falkenstein rather stiffly. "I am rather offended, Captain, at the implication that--"
"Kindly spare me. Colonel, did you inform Admiral Schiller of my instructions that no other parties than my own land?" she asked, her blue eyes staring coldly into his.
Falkenstein raised an eyebrow. "Captain Hohenloe, I have never in my life quibbled about orders. I did not do so in this case. Now..."
"Colonel, you disobeyed a direct order, and you are quibbling now. You act like you are a ritter of old times but in fact you are nothing but a conniving weasel. You are under arrest!" she snapped.
"I will of course protest." he said quietly, though she could see a vein suddenly standing out at his temple. Falkenstein, she realized, was enraged. He loathed the idea of a damned pilot ragging him out. And moreover thought her feckless, irresponsible, unworthy of his obedience.
"You may protest. But try to remember who you are talking to." Karen was shaken by his fury and anger, but her own was overpowering it, and she managed to hone it into something fierce. "Lieutenant Hochswender!"
"Excellency!" the stocky young officer came in, alert, eyes fierce.
"Colonel Falkenstein is under arrest. He is to be treated with respect but is to be regarded as a potentially dangerous mutineer. And I want the officers who followed him to be questioned."
Karen took a deep breath when he was gone from the dropship's briefing room. Then she rose and went out.
Thendara lay before her, like a complex jewel half buried in sand, it suggested and hinted, was even beautiful, but did not tell the whole of its tale at a glance.

Valentin Kadarin-Elhalyn was getting exceptionally bored by the time another of the strangers’ incredible sky-craft landed. He’d been told off by Lyondri to remain in charge of the detail of guardsmen watching the strangers, but once their leader had ridden past the gates of Thendara, there was little to watch. Most of them had gone inside during the standoff or since; the ones remaining were mostly the uniformed ones with their strange, ominous tools. The two groups of military were left warily eyeing one another across an intervening no-man’s land of road and bare ground.

The Thendara guardsmen, most of them older and more experienced by far than the young cadet, did not falter in their alertness. They might have little regard for some of the various sprigs of nobility who were placed in titular command of various units (at least until said sprigs proved themselves,) but Lyondri had left Tieran Moray with them, and the Sergeant was a man to be reckoned with at all times.

It may have been tempting to watch the efforts of the caravannaire and the remnants of his caravan to round up all their beasts and the packs that had flown every which way, but none of the guardsmen spared them more than an occasional glance. They kept their eyes on the strangers, who kept their eyes on the guardsmen.

Valentin couldn’t fault the men, and although he knew full well they regarded him as an untried dilettante, none of them failed in respect in the least degree. Even if he had Tieran to thank for that rigid discipline, it was helpful.

The only brief moment of excitement had been when the Commander’s son, Jeran, had come riding hell-for-leather up the road with a minimal escort, and had scooped up one of the female strangers. Although they weren’t going to show it, every man present had been utterly astounded at the sight. But the woman had been peacefully collected by one of her own men, and Jeran had relinquished her without a fight and ridden on, heading for Thendara as though every demon in Zandru’s hells was on his tail.

After that, most of the rest of the strangers had gone inside. Valentin found himself trying to think like the man who was obviously giving orders among the strangers. Of course. Easier to protect them in there. And control them. And keep them from the saddlebows of marauding Darkovans, of course. He suppressed a grin at the thought. The woman had been quite pretty, and her conduct had demonstrated a shamelessness that indicated she was probably some kind of pleasure-woman; a convenience for the men, perhaps. If there were many like that among the strangers, and they all had a taste for Darkovan men…

Then the leader had returned. There had been some bitter-sounding words from him to the subordinate he’d left behind. They appeared to be just settling in for a real chinwag when the sound of the new skycraft had made them both look up. The leader’s fury had been undisguised; clearly the new strangers were unwelcome.

This would be very interesting, and valuable, information. Not understanding a word of their tongue, and too far away to catch more than the intonations of raised voices in any case, he couldn’t imagine what, specifically, the issue might be. But it would be fascinating to see who was in that new craft.

Clearly, the leader was making an effort to control himself as the new arrivals disembarked. By the Lord of Light! he thought to himself, watching carefully. A woman! And she appears to be in command of the new strangers! He was bitterly disappointed when she gestured for the original leader to precede her and her people into the craft.

There were some changes among the military men watching the Darkovans. But the new ones simply took their places, and watched, in turn.

Valentin was about to try and reach Lyondri, and remind him that this patrol detail should be relieved, when the woman again came to the door of her craft, and stood looking over the plain to Thendara, in the distance. Involuntarily, his gaze followed hers, catching the winking of the tallest towers of Comyn Castle in the changing angle of the sunlight. Like flashes of reflection from a pool of blood.

Approximately at mid morning the following day, Karen left the dropship and was joined by Father Stephen, Doctor Kotzebue, and a small group of Imperial Marines under Sergeant Kammler. The other shuttle, under Lieutenant Hochswender’s command, abruptly took off for the Beowulf with Falkenstein in custody and his officers under suspicion.
Karen took a deep breath. Interviews with those present with Falkenstein suggested that the audience had not gone well. She was wearing her best full dress, including a long bayonet in an ornate sheath, white gloves, gold thread embroidery over her dark uniform with two rows of gold buttons, each chased with the image of a growling crowned leopard. Her boots shone like mirrors. One of the Imperial Marines carried the flag, which ruffled in the wind.
Her talk with Iolanthe Pfommer had irritating. The woman verged on insubordination, clearly feeling herself to be something of a free agent. Moreover, she seemed to find Karen’s own laran disturbing rather than encouraging. It occured to Karen with the strange intuition she suspected was part of her gift that Iolanthe had imagined her laran to be something unique with the part of her heritage—the gypsy part—that was unacceptable. For an aristocrat, a full blooded Lavenrunzian to posess it was clearly so unsettling that Iolanthe had withdrawn. She accused the Lavenrunzians of paranoia. Karen tried to explain that they were under a great deal of constraint. That they were hundreds of millions of miles from home, and that they had no idea what these people would be like. Unfortunately, there was a mistrust that had been deepened. She gave instructions, with some misgivings, that Iolanthe Pfommer was to be watched but permitted to do her work, and that she had committed no actual crime, had in fact only been trying to prevent bloodshed.
However, it was most un-Lavenrunzian of her, to have acted so rashly and hastily, going so much with her feelings rather than all of her senses with a rational decision. It was almost like Falkenstein himself.
Karen smiled at the analogy and gave her orders. It had been Kotzebue’s idea to have full 19th century style ceremonial—which made sense. This was more diplomacy than colonization still, as far as she was concerned. From what she understood, two similar societies existed, with border states acknowledging the power and authority but not necessarily power within their own states of the central power, in Thendara.
At her advance towards the guard post, Kammler muttered, “Forward—March.” A bandsman began a steady clicking of the drumsticks on the drum’s rim, so that their advance was marked with ‘click! Click! Click-click-click!’ When they had got within about twenty yards, Karen stopped, and heard Kammler say, “Halt.” Karen bowed and took a deep breath. She tried to make herself understood, ignoring the way her strawberry blonde hair was suddenly teased out of its careful coif by the wind. To use as many Darkovan words as she could, but sending the meaning and sense of what she said to the foreign officer.
“I am Karen von Hohenloe, the Commander of this Expedition. We have come on a peaceful mission to talk to the Council of Thendara. I ask that you let me enter the city.”
OOC: I had really wanted Karen to have a chance to talk to Iolanthe—I am going to presume that she did, and that Iolanthe acted consistently with the character shown thus far.

Camilla Lanart-Ridenow looked around the Ridenow apartments in Comyn Castle with a shudder. Obviously, no one had been looking after them for… well, for a long time, since she had not been allowed to accompany her husband to the last several Council seasons.

Dom Edric Ridenow looked around with a distinct lack of favor, too. “Get this place habitable,” he growled. “I’m going to go find out what in Zandru’s name Hastur thinks he’s up to.” He strode out of the apartments, leaving the guards and servants watching her with speculative expressions.

Ignoring the guards, she gestured to the servants. “You, and you… Go to the Steward’s Room and arrange for extra staff—at least three—and bring back cleaning supplies. I don’t trust anything that’s been moldering away in here for the last who knows how long.” Her tone was firm, but pleasant. With a touch of disappointment, they bowed, and left. To the others, she began apportioning duties—taking out hangings and rugs to beat the dust from them, unpacking and airing the bedding they had brought—all the minutiae of arrival. If it wasn’t done to his satisfaction, Edric would complain.

Of course, if it was done to his satisfaction, he’d probably complain, too, just because he felt deprived of the excuse to complain. But for now, at any rate, she turned her attention to the task at hand. After all, she had to stay here, too. And it would be a distraction from the pain and worry of parting with her son Gareth, who had accompanied them only to take up his cadet training, and was already reporting to the guards barracks. In these worrisome times… She glanced in the direction where the strange sky-craft had descended, and shuddered. Why did it have to be this year that Edric decided Gareth was ready? He was too young, really... only fourteen… well, fifteen by Midwinter, but still…

Trying to distract herself, she carefully opened all the clothes-presses and boxes, directing one of the servants to turn the boxes on their sides so that any small creatures lurking amid the dust could run out. Faugh, they’d been allowed to get foul, indeed. She would need sweetsand, and herbal fresheners.

It took some time to get the apartments anywhere near bearable, but when Edric returned, he glanced around sourly, but refrained from comment. However, when he turned to his wife, his face darkened. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Wearily, Camilla asked, “Dressed?”

“We must make our formal greeting to the Regent. Are you going in that?” he gestured contemptuously at her old plaid skirt and tunic, her hair tied back in a cloth.

Of course. In her concentration on the job, she’d forgotten. They would be expected to go and greet the Regent as soon as convenient after their arrival. Apparently, it was now convenient.

“I’m sorry, my husband, it’s taken me longer than expected to deal with the apartments.” It seemed safer than admitting that she’d forgotten. “I’ll change immediately.” She whisked herself out of the room before he could comment further.

She didn’t have time to do herself the justice that a visit to the Regent’s apartment commanded, but with the help of her maid she managed to wash and change, quickly. Edric had grudgingly allowed her to order some new gowns, so that she wouldn’t disgrace him in Thendara (grumbling all the time that she should have made the old ones ‘last longer,’) and she chose one of them—a blue-green underdress with a diaphanous yellow spider-silk overskirt.

Her red hair, now showing the odd silver streak here and there, she coiled into an elaborate butterfly clasp under a scarf made from the same fabric as the overskirt. It didn’t take much time, but Edric still glared at her when she returned to him.

“All right, let’s get this over with.”

They set off for the Regent’s apartment, walking sedately side-by-side. In public they maintained great decorum; in private, Camilla simply did her best to avoid her husband. Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult these days. Edric preferred young women, so as long as she could keep a steady supply of willing young maids and singing-women and sewing-women around, she could live a largely separate life. Still, for public occasions, it was necessary to preserve the forms.

They reached the Regent’s apartment, and were ushered in. Formal greetings were exchanged, then Edric said, rather sardonically, “Well, my Lord Hastur, I understand that we are to have some extremely interesting guests this Council season. I can’t help but wonder why?”

The Regent was about to reply when one of the guardsmen entered, and approached him, speaking in a low voice.

“Eh? But he just left yesterday… Who? Another one?” Hastur shook his head, then shrugged. “All right, show her in. And send someone to find Jeran.”

He caught a glimpse of the Keeper's thoughts, smiled indulgently at her.
"I would have imagined that one raised even briefly a Hastur, would have more political sense than that," he said. Added softly after a brief pause, "vai leronis"

Can you not see that Hastur would sooner silence you Keeper, than have Alton blood on his hands." He glanced up at Caitlyn, pondered how years wrapped in Tower work had coloured her view of the world without. "Do you imagine the fragile threads that hold the six domains together lie in Hastur's hands alone? Could he survive if the Altons turned aside generations of alliance and friendship?"
He rose from the chair, found that already his mind was speculating on the possibilities now opening to him.
Filled a glass with firi, sipped it almost calmly; his hands at least did not shake.

"I wager that it could well be another Keeper removed from office and shamefully secreted away," his eyes were cold, calculating. "So close to the young King coming to his throne, the Council is fragile at best already. No Caitlyn, Hastur would not stand beside you if he had any sense." Understand I do not threaten you Caitlyn Hastur. I do not need to. I intend a kindness when I say that politics is beyond the Tower of Arilinn.

He laughed now.
"And yet Caitlyn of Arilinn, I will offer my support to you," he wondered what thoughts drifted behind her unreadable features. Tight barriers had slipped round her mind. "You really have need of more than just my word I can see, so I shall be coming with you. We will speak with Lord Hastur and you shall have your way Caitlyn." Because it suits me, because I have plans of my own.

Summoning the corridom he commanded his man to ready horses, call in his lieutenants and singled out ten of the guard to accompany them.
"We'll waste no time vai leronis," he smiled, dipped his head to her and summoned a servant girl silently. "Gisette will see to your comfort until then."

Iolanthe had not expected the Captain to understand.
Anything that was not uniformly Lavenrunzian was beyond comprehension, and it seemed as ever a wonder that her father had fallen for the exotic Alita.
She was still shocked at how casually the woman had spoken of her own recently awakened laran.

Did the priests that had known her mother not still whisper about Alita? Had the aristocratic Karen von Hohenloe lived a life so different that she imagined that any non-telepath would view her with anything but suspicion?

I don't think that you realise how dangerous this makes things for you. How untrustworthy you would be in the eyes of your peers, superior and inferior.

"Captain, you cannot even claim to have learned to control the ability," she said aloud, frowned. "How would the ship react to you if they knew you could potentially read their minds?"

To Iolanthe what Karen had was akin to a window opened a sliver to the wind, equating it to years of living with the burdens as well as the gifts that came from laran, reeked of arrogance. No surprise there, Iolanthe. She is a peer of the realm.
Though she herself was often accused of living beyond reality, Iolanthe knew that Karen von Hohenloe was not even admitting to reality if she believed that laranwould not utterly change her life.

"How silly to be so blasé about it," Iolanthe sighed, grateful that she was alone and able to carefully think through the last few hours uninterrupted. "Does she imagine it some parlour trick to please the Empress?"

She considered Anna's reaction to her own confession, knew that her friend would view the Captain in a similar light, and be echoed by every colonist.

"Then the priests will further damn her," a guilty pleasure surged through Io. Perhaps the woman deserved it. Certainly more than mother ever did.

Karen von Hohenloe would be branded by them as Alita had been. Witch. Witch. Witch The whispers in Iolanthe's darkest nightmares would perhaps become the Captain's too, in time...

"Knowledge is a powerful thing," Iolanthe murmured thoughtfully. Now there is some Lavenrunzian thinking. It sounded so much like her father. 'Nymphe, power lies in even the least of information.'

Her mind leapt suddenly to consider the immature laran that the Captain believed had been mastered in a handful of days. How easily even this can be turned against you…Karen.

A slight frown creased her brow; she was delighted in the woman's apparent naivety!
Why?

The Captain had managed to completely alienate her, she realised. How little she inspired me to want to belong to my father's people.

It was the last of the Captain's thoughts, leaking from her mind like a ruptured sewer that had raised Iolanthe's back, she realised. Aside from the manner of a little Empress playing with her toy soldiers; Karen von Hohenloe had imagined that somehow Iolanthe who'd desperately sought to surround herself by people such as the Darkovan Comyn, was distraught to find it in a mere Lavenrunzian.

"Thankfully I am only half Lavenrunzian," Iolanthe smiled, tried not to tar her friend Anna with the same brush. The ignorance is appalling.

Her irritation gathered strength and the lights within the small toilet cubicle flickered. Briefly, Jeran's mind reached out; touched her own. The effect of her laran on the light seemed to fascinate him, subtle queues to her mind and she willingly answered his questions with further memories. Then his presence was gone and she closed her eyes, willing the cool calm of his mind to trickle over into hers.

“Ruyven, send for Rafe, also, please. If these strangers have returned I would like him present when I receive them,” Marcus Hastur said privately to his paxman. The paxman murmured instructions to a guardsman, who saluted smartly and left.

“Well, Edric, you can hear for yourself what the strangers have to say, assuming we can find Jeran Alton. He’s the only one who can understand them, so far.”

The Ridenow Lord’s eyes narrowed. “Is he, indeed? Most curious. And did the Altons have anything to do with bringing this… invasion… upon us?”

Hastur tried to keep from smiling. “If so, my Lord, the Alton laran has indeed reached new capabilities. Apparently these strangers come from a world beyond our own stars. A laran that could reach such a distance would be a truly remarkable matter, would it not?” He kept his tone bantering, knowing that the teasing would annoy Edric more than a serious response.

Rafe entered, for a wonder he had not managed to crumple the velvet tunic he’d worn yesterday, and his hair was newly cropped. He looked presentable, his uncle thought, watching Dom Edric survey the lad keenly as he bowed and made ceremonial greeting to the heir of Elhalyn.

By then, the doors opened, and one of the Hastur stewards said, “The… the Boro…ah…Bareeness von Hojenlow, my Lord,” and stood aside for the Lavenrunzians to enter.

Irritably, Marcus mentally enquired “Where is Jeran?”

Ruyven had already been enquiring. “They’re sending a messenger, my Lord—he’s inspecting the Guard posts in the City.”

“We’ll just have to do our best,” he muttered, as the woman entered.

Caitlyn politely kept herself from any attempts at mental communication with Lord Alton. Apparently he did not know her cousin well, at least not as well as she did. Of course, Marcus had always been reticent with his peers, the better to maintain the kind of neutral judiciality that facilitated his work as Regent. Fragile? The Council? She had heard rumors from other sources that there was some disaffection among the Altons, and possibly the Ardais, but Marcus had not referred to it. Did they intrigue to support Valentin or some other claimant to Elhalyn, perhaps? Her own sources indicated that the Ridenow and Aillard were fully in support of the Regent, even if there were some doubts regarding young Rafael’s ability to function without his uncle’s supervision.

Although she carefully kept Arilinn cloistered from the intrigues and politics of the Domains, Caitlyn was a Hastur to her bones, and more than that—as Keeper of Arilinn, she felt it incumbent upon her to maintain a finger on the pulse of all that affected the people of Darkover whom she served. She had her own subtle methods of information-gathering, but it would be expedient to allow others to assume her naïveté.

She attributed the hostility that poured from Lord Alton to the backwash of feelings that he could not allow himself to contemplate from the revelations of Raineach’s betrayal—and possibly from the fear he so strenuously denied regarding his own fate. If it became known that the Alton Lord had violated a Keeper—and with Caitlyn’s entire Tower aware of the fact, it was only her will that kept the knowledge secret for now—Hastur would not need to pronounce sentence upon him. Indeed, exert his will as he might to protect his friend, the fanatics of the holy virgin cult would inevitably enflame the mob, and the Domains would ignite, whether Hastur—or the entire Council, for that matter—willed it or not. He had good reason, then, to be upset, and hostile, although she was sorry for it. She would have preferred his friendship.

But the palpable calculation disturbed her. It was not only unexpected, it seemed irrational. This man and Raineach are indeed a good match, she thought. Perhaps, after all, that would be the best solution. Raineach retired from the Towers, to marry the Alton Lord. Jeran seems, at least, to understand the fundamental principles of laran use, and respect his oaths. If he returns to the Tower for additional help and training, perhaps he can assist in easing the torment of both his father and Raineach.

Well, Lord Alton’s sense of urgency to be in Thendara, at least, appeared to match her own. Other discussions could be deferred.

They wasted no time at all on the journey, and as they approached the City, the sight that met their eyes as they drew towards it showed that Caitlyn was, indeed, too late in carrying the news of the strangers’ arrival. They were there before her—that could be the only explanation for the strange shapes on the plain outside the gates. Vividly, the feelings of strangeness/familiarity that she had shared through the rapport with the Aldaran woman surged through her. Yes, these were the very strangers.

Alekandro gave a final glance to the elegant walls of Castle Aldaran.
His laran still tainted by his ordeal, refused to cross the distance for a final rapport with Rohan and he sighed aloud; glancing curiously at his travel companion Ranald and the Aldaran men that had been assigned to travel with them into the plains.
Still wary of the people of the seventh domain, Alek rode a while in silence before deciding that he would seem churlish to the Aldarans who had after all saved his life. Are these the subtle stirrings of friendship?
Alekandro Ardais almost laughed at the idea, guided his stallion until he road alongside Ranald.

"Who could have imagined such a journey Ranald Aldaran," he smiled, not quite managing to banish the vigilant set of his eyes. "Not even the boldest of singers could pair such as we in their songs."

Thendara
Karen von Hohenloe walked into the presence of the Council, and bowed. She took a deep breath, and hoped that the mysterious translator was present. “Majesty—My lords and ladies of the council. I am Karen von Hohenloe, Commander of the Beowulf, and I am here to greet you and bring you the greetings of my nation of Lavenrunz.” Her head was bothering her; she felt almost as if there was some sound that was trying to get through that wasn’t. “I would first like to apologize for the conduct of Colonel Falkenstein, who acted without orders and against my will.” Here she bowed and remained so for a few heartbeats. “Secondly: I have been to the realm of Aldaran, and have spoken with the people there. The same that I spoke to them I speak to you: my hope that our people will be able to settle on this world.” How odd it was, her voice was beginning to sound as if far away. Somehow her intent to convey her feelings and thoughts as she had with Shavanni had not worked well.

Aboard Beowulf
Lieutenant Hochswender up to Iolanthe's workstation. His aspect was grim. “Academican Pfommer.” He said sharply. “The way you spoke with the Captain was insolent, disgraceful and petulant for a woman of your education and parentage. The Captain has treated you with marvelous contstraint, given your actions. She continues to do so. She requires that you cooperate, explain the circumstances of the awakening of your psychic abilities and your knowledge of Cottman IV. If you do this you will be maintained in your current status. If you do not, you will remain under arrest and put to trial for mutinous behavior. This is not a university debate, Academican, and I advise you to remember that.”

Neodie's stiff features had been pale and unsettling; instilling in Iolanthe a fragile awareness of how delicate her position had become. Her brief communication had been caustic, yet underlying it all was her sisters' very real fears for Iolanthe.

"You'll leave me little option here, Iolanthe," her clipped words indicated how deeply in turmoil Neodie was. Behind poised features, terrible emotions wracked the elder Pfrommer sister. "I can't begin to tell you how difficult you've made things."

Difficult for you dear Neodie? Iolanthe regretted the thought immediately; of course she had made things difficult for her sister as well. But Neodie's fear was not for herself.

"If it comes to bringing your sanity into question…" on the monitor Neodie sighed, her recorded features scrambled briefly by a surge of emotion from Iolanthe. She could almost wish that the communiqué were live, but Neodie had either been unwilling to allow her sister any response or had been forbidden from speaking with Iolanthe.

On the monitor, Neodie looked up, eyes blue and brilliant. Did she hold back tears to make them glimmer so?

"I shall do what is best Iolanthe," Neodie ended, hands collapsing together on her desk. My hands are tied, the gesture said. "Please don't aggravate the situation. We're not back home Iolanthe, here protocol cannot be lax. We've no idea what we're involving ourselves in. None." Her tone brooked no disagreement, her eyes stared out of the screen at Io a moment.
Then it blanked, as Lieutenant Hochswender entered and the two events seemed inter-linked; for the Lieutenant's mood was as black as the dead monitor screen.

Iolanthe's hand went up to stroke the chunky knotted silk choker at her throat, Alita's. Reality had begun to set in for her…

Ranald Aldaran-Scathfell was the eldest of Lord Aldaran’s children by a good many years, and a little grey had already begun to show in his close-cropped dark hair. He was a taciturn, amiable man who spent most of his time at the manor of Eagle Crag, which his father had settled upon his mother when she’d married. He had a reputation as a just man and a canny warrior, and the villages that looked to Eagle Crag seemed to like him well enough.

Lord Aldaran had considerable respect for his commonsense and, more importantly for this mission, his equanimity and unexcitable temperament—something of an anomaly among the volatile mountain nobility. The only thing he’d ever disappointed his father in was his stolid refusal to take a wife and have children—even his rare casual liaisons had never produced any children, and he showed no signs of changing his mind any time soon, no matter how many pretty girls of good family his sisters dangled under his large, aquiline nose. Neither did he appear to be an ombredin—his relations with comrades in arms, while close, were not intimate and he had never taken a bredu.

He’d accepted this latest assignment from his father with his usual calm. The arrival of the strangers from another world had certainly surprised him, and he’d questioned his brother and Captain Beltran closely about the incidents of their journey, but he had none of Esteban’s blazing curiosity about their strange devices and vehicles, although his brows had drawn together at the description of the weapons the strangers had used. Esteban might be willing to extend them the benefit of the doubt as to cowardice, but Ranald saw nothing admirable in the use of vastly unequal weapons in combat that should be hand-to-hand, between equally-matched blades.

Still, his father’s cogent analysis of the changing dynamics the strangers had precipitated had been clear enough to him. And he could understand why Dom Gabriel wanted his nedestro son to be his envoy to the lowlands. He’d never taken any interest one way or the other in the raiding and feuding that went on at the margins of the Khilgards between the mountain folk and their neighbors, and had no particular opinion, good or bad, of the hali’imyn of the plains. There was no blood on his hands that might cause problems in the lowlands, and no chervine in his pastures that could be rightfully claimed by a Khilgard holder or herdsman.

Upon being introduced to Dom Alekandro Ardais, he’d exchanged a few pleasant words with the man, but thus far on the journey the lowlander had shown no signs of a particularly sociable disposition, and he’d respected his apparent wish for solitude.

Ranald was not the Aldaran heir, and they were riding under his own banner of Eagle Crag—party per bend, with the sable Aldaran eagle on gules dexter, and a pile renverse or on sable sinister. They were accompanied by two of his own men and two of his father’s, all seasoned, level-headed men.

When the Ardais lord ranged up beside Ranald and made a remark about “not even the boldest of singers could pair such as we in their songs,” he was nonplused, at first. His thoughts had actually been on the pasturage of Eagle Crag’s stud of mountain horses, and it took a moment to shift his thoughts and comprehend the man’s reference. But a smile, bracketed by deep lines on his lean cheeks, appeared slowly in response, as the meaning sank in.

“True enough,” he said, “though I am not well-versed in ballads, I have not heard of such a one. The closest might be the old mountain lament about the Two Rivers… the Kadarin and the Valeron, running ever parallel, to the same end, but never touching. Although I think that one is about the love of a mountain man and a lowland woman.” He thought a moment. “And it ends unhappily, too. So perhaps it is not a good example,” he said with a gleam of humor.

They were riding light, stopping at mountain manors or villages for hospitality when their trail took them near enough, but for the most part sleeping in the open or at trail shelters. A heavy snow squall forced them to end their day prematurely at a shelter only once, and a couple of the men turned out to be quite talented musicians—one a piper, another a singer. They introduced Alekandro to some of the ballads unlikely to be played in polite (or mixed) company—humorous, satirical, or bawdy songs in the alliterative, rhythmic mountain style. Even Ranald was persuaded to lift his voice and contribute a verse now and then, and although his tuneless intonation could hardly be called singing, he certainly knew some very entertaining verses.

The Darkovans were clearly astonished at the sight of the Lavenrunzian leader, and her unconventional—not to say indecent attire. Her attempts to speak a few words of casta might have impressed them, had the word “Aldaran” not distracted them altogether. At that, the man seated in the large chair by the desk stiffened slightly, and his gaze grew very intent. The hand of the man standing at attention behind him stole unconsciously to his dagger hilt. The youth sitting nearby looked, as though involuntarily, to the seated man. The other man, in green and gold clothing, muttered something that included/echoed the word “Aldaran.” It didn’t sound friendly. The eyes of the woman standing beside him widened a little.

When she finished, the man in green and gold said something, rapidly and in an angry tone, to the seated man, who silenced him with a gesture.

Marcus Hastur tried to collect his thoughts, and parse some meaning from the woman’s utterances. He had caught “Domii e Domna”—Lords and Ladies—in casta, and an echo of the name she’d been announced by—“Hock-hen-low,” or something like that. “Greet,” and “greetings” had been clear enough, and “Lavenzunz” (or whatever it was,) had been the same word used by the man who had visited the previous day with his preposterous demands, as had the name—“Fal-ken-styn.” “Orders” was clear, too, although the negatory shake of her head seemed to indicate—what—she was disobeying orders? The man had done so? Someone else? In any case, the bow that followed indicated some deference or apology.

The only thing that he’d been able to pick out of the rest of her statement was the word “Aldaran,” and the shock of that had made him lose track of trying to understand the rest of what she said. What had the Aldaran to do with this? Was the sorcery that had rocked the Comyn Tower some Aldaran treachery? That might be good news, as well as ill news. Yesterday, in discussing the strangers with Jeran, he had indicated that whatever laran storm had raged about the Castle, it had not likely been from the strangers. Laran among them was virtually unknown, he’d told the Regent—the female who had contacted Jeran believed herself the only one among them who had any laran at all. Their menace resided, rather, in their technology and their weapons.

And their intentions.

Jeran’s information had been useful, but Hastur had not taken it for granted. Although Jeran clearly believed what he had learned, the Regent had to reckon with the possibility that Jeran had been made a pawn by some powerful sorcery from within the strangers’ ranks. Now, with the mention of Aldaran, perhaps a clue was being offered? Still, it would not do to make too many assumptions without more information—information that was frustratingly hard to obtain.

At least this representative of the strangers did not strut arrogantly into the presence of the Regent and the heir and announce their intentions as though it were a thing all but accomplished. Perhaps, even, she might understand something of the nuances of diplomacy?

With a minatory glance at Lord Ridenow, he nodded graciously to the woman, and stood.

“Greetings, Domna Hockhenlow. I,” he used small, economical gestures to illustrate his introductions, “am Marcus-Kieran Gabrial Alar Hastur of Hastur, Regent of the Six Domains. This is Rafael-Istvan Ardais Hastur y Elhalyn, Heir to Hastur and the Throne of the Domains. Lord Edric Ridenow, the Lady Camilla Lanart-Ridenow.”

Introductions exhausted, he frowned, momentarily, trying to think how to convey his meaning clearly. “Your greetings,” he paused, and gestured, “are appreciated. Our Council,” his gesture encompassed the Ridenows and a vague motion that seemed to indicate others, not present, “will meet today to discuss the—the La-ven-runz wish for homes among us.”

“Until those discussions are complete, you are welcome to remain,” again he gestured, “as our guest.”

Karen could see that they understood little...but that at least they were being responsive. Something else. Thendara was regarded with what seemed to be a neutral distant disdain by Aldaran--but were the folk of Aldaran rebels, or enemies, disliked more by those of the south than the dislike was returned?
She listened and watched carefully as they replied, and then realized that they were at the very least making her welcome...cautiously.
She placed her hand over her heart, and bowed politely. She tried to convey her gratitude and her hope for friendship as best she could--tried to feel it as clearly as she might.

The Hellers

"Breaker Three to Beowulf." said Lieutenant von Ihengen. His dropship was moving at the slowest cruising speed among the huge teeth of the mountains towards a more level area of what appeared to be a mountain pass, a white expanse with exposed spots of bare snow below them.
"Go ahead, Breaker Three." came Lieutenant-Commander Groll's voice.
"Please be advised, Commander, that we have reached the chosen site and are making ready to land." replied von Ihengen. He noticed that the pilot and crew were entirely absorbed in their task. High winds were buffeting the vessel and the landing would be a little tricky.
Neverthelss, they had soon landed, and the landing party, mostly technicians, were setting up what would be the first of a series of relay stations in the Hellers, which, as far as they knew, were largely uninhabited.
"What a place." von Ihengen muttered to himself. It captured the imagination, no doubt, in its vast strange bleakness--the great red sun painting the clouds beyond the tall stark wild mountains, the snow and ice. It was like legends of the ancient times--the pagan ancient times--of Ymir and frost giants.
The connected series of domes, rivted into the very rock, would be both survival stations and communications relays. He was impressed and pleased with the way that in spite of the cold and the situation the techs very professionally got things set up. All were wearing thermal gear and had survival kits as well as their equipment. Along with them were four Imperial Marines, who were standing watch, though they were mostly cold and bored. But then, they had heard tales of the bandit attack. Admittedly with arrows, but arrows still killed people.
As satellite umbrellas, antennae and generators were being unpacked and hooked up, Marine Neumann saw a figure climb over a large rock several dozen meters away and peer at him through the snow that blew over the ground from the high winds.
"Who goes there!" he challenged, suddenly alert, bringing his rifle to bear. He spoke into his voice-activated communicator. "Sir...I have a contact, forty meters away. Now its moving..."
"Understood, Neumann, I'm on my way."
Von Ihengen alerted everyone else and had work halt. The techs moved closer together; the other marines remained at their posts.
Neumann wondered if whoever it was could understand or hear him. "I said...who goes there!" he shouted. Then suddenly he saw with horror that it was not human...it was some sort of creature. A flightless bird, bigger than a person, whose feathers ruffled in the wind, a great ugly heavy-beaked naked head moving this way and that...and then with terrifying speed it was rushing forward, an awful wailing cry shivering through his very body. He aimed at its chest and fired a burst, then stitched upward. It staggered, shrieking horribly, and a mere four meters away collapsed sideways.
"Mother of God..." muttered von Ihengen, who had just arrived, his own rifle up. "What...what a monster!"
Neumann was breathing hard through his teeth. He checked his rifle and fed in another clip.
The two of them went cautiously forward, for the beast was still moving feebly, evil croakings coming from its great wattled throat. Huge claws moved back and forth, spasmodically gouging trails long as a human arm in the snow. A faint carrion predator's reek came from it.
"Finish it off." ordered von Ihengen.
They each fired a burst, and it suddenly lay still, gouting blood that was more lifelike than the bird now.
"What a place." repeated von Ihengen.

(OOC: Discussed with Hastur for his characters’ actions.)

“Aldaran treachery! Now it becomes evident!” Edric had exclaimed, in a low, angry voice. The Regent had gestured him to silence, but Camilla had hardly noticed the exchange. Her attention was focused inward, on the peculiar sensation in her laran. As though someone—or—something—was trying to contact her, but lacked the strength or the ability to form proper words.

Camilla had more than her share of the Ridenow donas—her mother had been a nedestro of the old Lord Ridenow’s brother. It had been one of the matters considered by Edric and his father when selecting a bride—they wanted Edric’s children to have a strongly-reinforced share of their Domain’s laran.

It had never really done Camilla much good—she had little to do with the animals of the Ridenow estate or with non-humans, and had never encountered someone who couldn’t make themselves understood in caheunga, at least. Most of the time, she forgot it was there. Yet now it slowly dawned upon her where this—intrusion—was coming from: the stranger-woman.

Impossible! Camilla looked, covertly, at the others, to see if they felt it at all. Edric was clearly too wrapped up in his own thoughts and feelings to be receptive to anything but a mental shout, at this point. The young Prince was trying courteously not to stare at the woman, and listening intently to his uncle. Hastur—doing his best to verbalize communication—was apparently oblivious to it.

Intrigued, she paid attention to the contact. Nonverbal concepts carried great meaning to one with the Ridenow donas, even in rudimentary form. Empathy was the most common manifestation, but communication with non-humans and others who did not verbalize in the languages of the human Domains was not unknown. It appeared that her laran included such communication.

The woman was trying earnestly to project feelings of goodwill, underlaid with a concern that might reflect several things, Camilla realized, trying to sort out the impressions. But the contact faded and strengthened almost randomly, making it difficult. The woman was mentally weary, she comprhended. No, not so much in thought, but… with whatever strange, otherworldly laran enabled her to reach Camilla’s mind. And swirling over that weariness was another current, one that looked very much like the beginning of threshold sickness. Camilla had brought five children alive through threshold sickness, and knew its various manifestations as well as any leronis. She watched the woman with intense concern.

“My Lord Hastur,” she said in a ‘quiet’ subvocal tone to the Regent, “This stranger has a kind of laran. I am—feeling—something—she is trying to convey. She wishes to be seen as friendly, but she has concern for something. And, my Lord, I… I think she is experiencing something… something very like the onset of threshold sickness. I know it sounds most peculiar, but… her thoughts trailed off apologetically. This was information the Regent had to know, she felt.

Hastur’s gaze flickered to her, as the woman bowed again. She could feel the edge of an exchange between the Regent and her husband, which she politely tried not to attend to. It annoyed Edric, of course, but then most things did. The Regent’s attention returned to the stranger woman.

“Domna, this Lady, Camilla Lanart-Ridenow,” his gesture indicated the woman in the blue-green and yellow, “Will see to your guesting, if you will allow.” He nodded to Camilla, and she stepped towards the woman half a pace or so.

As she stepped toward the stranger, Camilla tried to focus her thoughts very clearly, with sufficient clarity to get through the chaotic projections the stranger was emanating, without being a painful mental shout. “Domna? Are you well? I mean no harm to you…”

Karen suddenly understood one of them...and relief filled her being. She fought her exhaustion and the growing nausea headache and replied, "I...I must confess that I am not well at all...Domna..." she managed by sheer effort to say to Sergeant Kammler, "Inform them...I am ill, no ill intent here but..." And then the alarmed noncom was lunging forward to catch the falling body of his captain.
Karen felt that there were blue skies all around her, a proper decent yellow sun, and that strange silence of all but the engines of her plane...

Camilla could feel the woman’s nausea overcome her; her own reflexes snapped in automatically to prevent her from sharing the physical sensations. She stepped forward even as the woman crumpled, catching hold of her shoulder and arm as her paxman caught the other.

Seeing that the man had a good hold and would not allow the woman to sink to the floor, she turned her head, and said over her shoulder, “Lord Hastur, if you will have the servants bring me a small amount of kirian, and, I think perhaps, some bladderwort extract….?”

She turned then to the paxman. Of course, she could not look him in the eyes—but she gestured, and projected, as clearly as possible… “The Domna’s illness is not serious—if it is correctly treated. Please, bring her.” She gestured, assertively, toward the door, checking mentally with Lord Hastur to verify her memory that some of the rooms near the end of this corridor were bedrooms normally used by minor Hastur family connections when they stayed as guests. There were several untenanted, but they were kept ready during Council season.

She smiled reassuringly at the doubtful paxman—yes, she could feel his doubt. It was not as clear as the woman’s projection, there was no trace of laran, there, but it was logical enough that he should feel so. She tried to project reassurance—had no idea whether he would be able to understand, but as she led him down the corridor, she said slowly, and clearly (after all, the woman had known at least a few words of casta, perhaps this paxman did, as well?) “I mean no harm to your Lady, mestru. I will see to her illness. Her illness, you understand?”

The man had said something to the other strangers; there had been a moment’s colloquy among them, but they followed him as he carried her. A couple of Guardsmen followed, as well, and took up stations by the door she held open.

“Please, in here—” she gestured to the far end of the room, where a bed reposed behind a screen. “There…”

The man laid her on the bed, and directed one of the other strangers to stand nearby. The rest remained in the front of the room, by the door.

Camilla stood aside while the paxman felt the woman’s wrist for a pulse. It would be weak, and thready—which might alarm him, if he had no knowledge of threshold sickness. With laran running erratically through her body’s energy channels, Domna Hockhenlow’s physical functions would diminish in strength, the laran sapping them.

There was a knock, on the door, and one of the Guardsmen entered, followed by a maidservant. Domna Hockhenlow’s men were alert, but they made no hostile gestures. “Domna, the Regent sent kirian.”

“Good. You, girl… what is your name?”

“Nalla, vai Domna,” the girl bobbed a respectful head.

“Nalla, put the bottle there, on the table, and fetch some water and a cup. No, two cups. And some furs.”

“Yes, vai Domna.”

Camilla looked at the paxman, and gestured to the unconscious form. “Please, may I examine her?” She gestured, hoping the man understood.

He still looked doubtful, tried to catch her eye, which embarrassed her—shocked her silly for a moment, but perhaps he did not mean it. She could feel his concern and doubt; there was no trace of anything improper, so far as she could tell. A trifle hesitantly, he moved aside. His companion murmured something, and he responded, and stepped back a trifle more decisively.

Camilla drew her matrix, in its little insulating bag, from her bodice. Sliding the bag back and twisting the copper chain to hold it away, she held the stone lightly. Basic monitoring was about the extent of what she could do, but that she could manage well enough. Slowly, she laid her hand just above the woman’s chest, and felt for the flow of energy, moving slowly with it.

She was unconscious, but only lightly. A vertiginous confusion still layered among the energies in her mind, a confusion Camilla could not really reach, couldn’t affect. The flows were sporadic, blocked. The blocks might ease, of themselves, if she could become fully unconscious…

She monitored the outer layers… the woman was drifting among them, now slightly closer to consciousness, now less so. She seemed to be sliding into less consciousness, but still not deeply enough.

Camilla bit her lip. Kirian might help her reach past the blocks, stimulate the deep level of unconsciousness that would allow rest, let the channels smooth out, allow the laran accumulation to dissipate a little. But she did not know whether it would harm the woman—she seemed perfectly human, but…

She frowned, let her matrix fall, and rearranged the insulating bag. She looked doubtfully at the flask on the table, then at the woman, whose eyes were half-open now. She muttered something, and they closed. Her head moved slowly from side to side, as though seeking ease from pain—which she probably was. The headaches that accompanied some forms of threshold sickness were fierce.

That decided Camilla. Nalla had returned, with a pitcher of water and a cup, she gestured for the girl to set it on the table by the head of the bed. First, test the swallow reflex… She poured a little water into a cup, and drank, ostentatiously, for the benefit of the woman’s paxmen. She poured some into the other cup, then moved to sit on the side of the bed, so she could raise the woman’s shoulders a bit. “Nalla, slide another cushion under here, please.”

When she had {I]Domna[/I] Hockhenlow raised a bit, Camilla held the cup to her lips, tilting it a trifle so the water touched them. “Drink,” she said softly, reinforcing the command mentally. A little of the water dribbled, then she took a sip, swallowed. Camilla watched closely. “Good.” The woman muttered something.

Camilla had taken her for a bit older, at first. But upon looking at her closely, she realized that this woman was, perhaps, the age of her own oldest daughter, married to Leallas di Asturien, and expecting her second child. Mature, but still she seemed young to Camilla, who felt very old these days, with three grandchildren already and her own youngest leaving for cadet service.

It was rare for an adult to experience threshold sickness. Very occasionally—sometimes among the Elhalyn, who now and then came into their laran very late—an adult would experience it. Camilla tried to remember what she knew of that—whether it made the sickness easier or worse. Her own children had all been in their early teens. Not as bad, she thought, struggling to pull up a half-memory of old Lorina, talking reassuringly to her about it, long ago. It was partly the physical storms of adolescence—burgeoning sexual maturity—that made the sickness so uncomfortable.

So adults should have an easier time—perhaps. One could never tell, laran in all its manifestations and phenomena—and this had the genuine feel of laran, just like any Darkovan—was a tricky thing. Unpredictable.

The woman threw her head to one side, and made a sound of pain. Camilla made a decision. She looked at the paxman who had carried his Lady, not meeting his eyes, but letting her own face and voice carry her earnestness. “I am going to give her medicine. I do not think it will harm her—this is a medicine that helps when… when one has this sickness.” She gestured to the woman, then to the small flask, then to the woman.

There was some danger, certainly—if she could communicate better with these strangers—something more than just feelings, impressions, the nonverbal sensations of her Ridenow donas, she would try to explain about the risks, tell them that she thought they were not too great. But, they were already doubtful—and she knew that the woman needed real unconsciousness, real rest, before things worsened seriously.

The man looked at her earnestly—she noticed that he no longer tried to meet her eyes—and then went to the bed, laying a hand on his Lady’s forehead, shaking his head in puzzlement—no fever—and again checking her pulse. Still weak and thread. Slowly, the woman’s head moved on the pillow, trying to escape the gathering pain. He glanced at the flask, said something to his companion, who shook his head. He bit his lip, clearly dealing with a dilemma.

She tried to project sympathy, reassurance, confidence, but had no idea if they were getting through. Finally his lips tightened, he let out a short, intense breath, and nodded to her, gesturing at the flask.

“Thank you…” she took the flask from its tray, carefully poured a very small amount in one of the tiny cups. She sniffed, her nose wrinkling the way it always did from the sharp, elusive fume of the liquor. She touched it to her lips, let a drop roll onto her tongue. Not much—just enough to ensure no unconscious barriers would get in her way. She set that glass down, picked up another, and poured a slightly larger amount into it—perhaps ten or twelve drops.

Lifting the woman’s head again, she set the tiny glass against her lips, again commanding “drink.” She could feel her own barriers relaxing, her consciousness flowing outward a bit. The woman’s nose wrinkled too, she noted, but she sipped, and swallowed. A grimace crossed her face momentarily, and smoothed out. Kirian didn’t really have a taste—it practically volatilized as one drank it, too evanescent to really taste at all. But if you weren’t expecting it, the slightly ‘explosive’ sensation could be unpleasant.

She set the glass aside, and waited, probing very gently. Four breaths, five… she felt the blocks melt, the chaotic flow becoming clearer, stronger, easier to read. Random images—not really visual, but perceptions nonetheless, floated woozily by. A bright, golden light. A sensation of falling very fast—but not really falling, and, strangely, not frightening. Motions as though she were inside a child’s ball, being thrown up, down again… She pulled herself back from the disorienting impressions, back to the outer layers.

“Domna, all is well. You are safe. You must rest now. Rest. All is well. Rest. Rest.” Slowly, she smoother through the layers of consciousness, releasing the tension, using the mental impression of laying a thick, soft, blanket… warm… comfortable… deep…

Gradually, the woman’s consciousness faded. Her head stilled. Her eyes closed all the way. Her breathing evened and deepened. Her pulse gained a little strength. She was at rest.

Sighing deeply—it took some effort, that. Camilla had not the strongest laran, nor did she use it much; she would need to rest, herself. She smiled at the paxman. “If she rests for a night and a day, perhaps…” She gestured to the window, where the sun was moving downward. She pointed gesturing it down, back up again, high, and down, trying to convey the idea of night, day.

The man seemed to get the general idea—the Lady had to rest. He took her pulse again, nodded. He looked at the flask bemusedly, and said something to her.

Weary, Camilla marshaled her resources, trying to understand him. He was gesturing—toward the west, toward the western gate. Ah! Where the strangers’ sky-things were. He made a motion, a ‘come here’ gesture. Pointed to the window, made the ‘come here’ gesture again. Gestured to his comrades, out the window. She wasn’t getting it; he seemed a little frustrated. Finally, with some inspiration, he took the pitcher, set it on one side of the table. He said a strange word, and gestured around at the walls, ceiling, floor.

Ah! The pitcher was to represent this room? Or perhaps… yes, perhaps, all of Thendara Castle? He set the flask on the other side of the table, then pointed out to where the strangers’ sky-cars rested, then to the flask. Yes. The flask was to represent the sky-cars, clearly. He made his fingers walk from the flask to the pitcher. “One will be coming…? From… from your sky-cars?” she hazarded. She didn’t think he could understand what she said, but he nodded.

“I will tell the Lord Hastur,” she nodded. “And…” she looked around. “I will have Nalla bring you some food. Food?” She made an eating gesture, pointed at the girl, then gestured to the maidservant to approach. “Nalla, bring these men some food.”

“Yes, vai Domna.”

“Yes. I will tell Lord Hastur,” Camilla said, suddenly unutterably weary. “Let her rest.”

She went to the door, tried to smile at them, almost blind with her own weariness. “Let her rest.”

She had to endure one of Edric’s ranting denunciations, however, before she could sleep. It was totally unacceptable, she put herself forward too much. It was unbecoming. These people might be dangerous, they might use sorcery on her. She had bothered the Regent, made a nuisance of herself, demanding attention. Camilla didn’t so much listen as remain stationary while his words swirled around her. Finally he ran down, calling her a useless, brainless hussy with no notion how to behave or obey her husband, and swept out.

She barely had the energy to take off her dress and veil before she fell into bed, exhausted.

OOC: This RP has been on hold since last summer. It is based on the "Darkover" works of Marion Zimmer Bradley. For background information on this universe, see this thread/post:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=308166&page=1

When the RP went on hold, there were four players: Hastur of Elhalyn, Aldaran of the Hellers, Alton Domain, and Lavenrunz. All but Alton will be re-starting the RP. Alton Domain no longer exists, but if the player who created that Nation wishes to revive it and rejoin the RP, you can contact Hastur of Elhalyn for the password to the Region, etc.

If others who are thoroughly familiar with the Darkover universe would like to join the RP, please contact Hastur of Elhalyn to discuss. This has been a very well-written, interesting collaboration, we hope people enjoy reading it as it re-starts and continues.

Hastur of Elhalyn

At long last, Kaltry Venzales had managed to salvage what remained of his pack train, though two chervine had been injured in their panicked flight, one too badly to walk. He had one of his men cut the animal’s throat, and with much grumbling the beast’s burden was distributed among the riding animals of a couple of his men, who were in turn forced to walk.

The caravan resumed its progress to Thendara, turning northeast and making for the Gate of Idriel, on the other side of Comyn Castle. It was a longer route and less convenient to the markets once inside the city, but it took them well away from that unnerving thing on the Plain, and the covey of Guardsmen watching it.

They camped one more night on the road, a curiously subdued bunch, for the eve of arrival. Normally, they’d be joking, making plans, sharing anecdotes about their last trip to the city and making boasts about what they’d do this time. But there was little conversation among them that night. They all wondered— just what did that thing on the Plain portend? For Darkover— and Darkover’s people.

Thendara, too, when they rode in the next day, had a curiously subdued and unsettled air, in contrast to the normally festive feeling associated with the opening of Council Season. As the caravan threaded carefully through the streets of the Vedrith district, where many of the City’s wealthiest merchants and craftsmen had their homes, Kaltry noted the barred outer gates of the house compounds, and the abundance of sober-faced, well-armed men in the streets.

As a merchant of some importance (not to mention affluence,) Kaltry’s local agent was expected to have all the arrangements made for his accommodation in the Market. But the man, a clerk and coin-changer, was away from his small shop when they arrived. A boy was sent running, and finally he returned, a fattish, well-dressed man in fur-trimmed tunic. He was puffing slightly, either from exertion or diplomacy. “Dom Venzales, Dom Venzales! Devastated that I was not here to welcome you. I had men posted to warn me…?” He sounded puzzled.

Kaltry waved the apology aside. “No matter, Varn. I came by the Idriel Gate. You couldn’t have known. Are the usual accommodations prepared?”

The clerk nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. Piedro Barget will be delighted to accommodate your beasts and men. And your rooms at the Copper Verrin are prepared. I think you’ll like the new location I’ve optioned for your stalls; it’s where Vingo Redfern set up last Council Season, on the near end of Weaver’s Street, where it crosses the Street of Scales.”

“Impressive!” Kaltry nodded approval, but his lips pursed. “But not too expensive, I trust.” He knew that Varn would be collecting a commission from the property owner; he had no objection to the man making a little legitimate extra, but he was not prepared to be cheated.

Varn shrugged deprecatingly. “Well, it is a premium location. Others were interested, I had to get the Market Captain to make a ruling… the agent for Morren Galasz claimed he had a prior arrangement.” His fingers moved suggestively to indicate how he’d managed to gain the Market Captain’s support. “But the final arrangement is not too bad, for such a fine location. Thirteen silver riyals a tenday for the season, in fact.”

Kaltry winced as though stung. “Thirteen! I’ll have to sell the beasts and the clothes off my back to cover the expenses this trip, Zandru witness!” The complaint was obligatory, but he was secretly relieved. It was not a bad price, really. His tone remained grumbling, but he gave a little nod as he echoed Varn’s gesture. “Well put everything down on the expense tally, we’ll settle up tomorrow morning once things are set up.”

While they were talking, Varn had sent one of his boys down the street for a couple of tankards of ale. He gestured for Kaltry to sit, when they arrived. “Here, gallimak piss, but I imagine you’re too dry to care, at this point.” He grinned.

The merchant snorted, and drained half the tankard at a gulp. “As you say.” He sat, on a bench beside the clerk’s table, and looked curiously at his agent. “What’s a-brew?” Varn’s manner told him plainly there was news to share— hardly surprising given the presence of the thing on Thendara Plain.

Varn leaned forward. “Owain Carvayez bids you to his house tonight, at sunset.”

Kaltry was startled. Carvayez was the richest, most influential commoner in Thendara, a man whose interests in property and trade had made him wealthy as a Comyn Lord… wealthier than most, in fact. He’d met the man once, on a previous trip, during some business at the Market Tribunal. He’d been impressed with Carvayez’ shrewd, hardheaded demeanor, but he hadn’t thought he’d made much of an impression on the man. He blinked, and looked questioningly at Varn, who shrugged, then looked toward the window, the street door, and the back door of his shop, as though to ensure that no one was near enough to overhear. He leaned forward, confidentially.

“Gossip in the Market has something afoot. You are not the only man of importance—” a little subtle flattery never hurt— “bidden to visit Dom Carvayez. There are many and a-many rumors flitting from lip to lip.”

Some hours and several tankards later, Kaltry made his way to the Copper Verrin, a very thoughtful man.


As they drew closer to the city, their pace slowed slightly, in spite of both Caitlin’s and Lord Alton’s desire for haste. Coming from the hills of Armida they’d traveled with the minimum of panoply —banner bearers, of course— but they’d dressed for the trail, and their guards had ranged protectively but loosely about them, matching their speed. Lord Alton had politely insisted on mounting Caitlyn and her people on some of the big, fast Armida mounts, pointing out, quite rightly, that if they were to be able to keep up with his escort, they would have to be mounted on horses that could match the Alton mounts for pace and endurance.

However, as they approached the city, the usages of custom demanded a more ceremonial pace and disposition of their party. The Keeper of Arilinn’s banner preceded them. Caitlyn changed into the dark-russet furred cloak, and the copper-trimmed veil that were the most formal garments she had packed, aside from her Keeper’s robes. As the villages became larger, and closer together on their road, the sight of the banners brought people running, to line the roads and gawk or greet the noble ones. When it was realized that the Keeper of Arilinn, herself, rode among them, the awe and reverence of the onlookers became almost palpable. The swelling cries of “S’diya shaya, vai leronis alzua,” (“You lend us grace, most high Sorceress,”) surrounded them, and the bolder among them murmured requests for the High Lady to ‘overlook them with favor,’ and ‘grant them countenance,’ –requests for what? Caitlin wondered grimly, glad that the veil hid her rigid features.

It had been long since she’d left Arilinn. The reports of others had given her some intimation of how the “holy virgin” cult had taken hold in the villages and towns, but this brought it home to her with new impact. Like a kick in the gut, in fact. As they approached the last village on the edge of the plain, turning onto the road that would bring them to the Idriel Gate, she glanced around. Carvala rode beside and slightly behind her, and three Arilinn guardsmen flanked them on either side. One more rode next to the banner-bearer, and two followed them, just preceding the Alton banner. Melor, who’d ridden courteously beside her on the earlier part of the journey, was surrounded by his own paxmen and guardsmen, now.

What did they want of her, Caitlin wondered again. Her mere presence, they believed, would ensure the countenance of the Gods, good fortune for their fields and herds, their kinsmen and households. Folly! But they believed. She had had an absurd impulse to tear off her veil, and shout at them, ‘Fools! I have nothing to do with your crops, your children! Your fortune is in your own hands, and the Gods’!’ But it would have been useless, and worse. She rode among them, straight-backed, still, silent. Like the virgin semi-goddess they thought her. She was relieved when the village dropped behind them, and the city loomed close.

Her banner had been sighted, the gate opened, and a detachment of City Guardsmen rode out to meet her. A good-looking young man, with grey Aillard eyes, bowed over his saddle. “[I]S’dia shaya, vai leronis. I am Lyondri Aillard, Cadet Master of the City Guard, and Acting Commander. In the Regent’s name I bid you welcome and thrice welcome. It is long since we have had the honor of hosting Arilinn at Council.” Caitlin thanked him for the greeting, and he turned to Melor, and saluted. “Commander, your return is welcome. Your son has already arrived.”

Austerely, Lord Alton nodded. The formal return of command would, of course, take place later. He appreciated Lyondri’s abilities with the Cadets, but he’d never much liked the man. A good fighter, but no tactical sense.

The City Guardsmen fell in with their party, and they rode through the Idriel Gate.

Beowulf, Deep Space over Cottman IV

Commander Groll sat thoughtfully in his stateroom. He had just gotten through with communications reports, one of which indicated that Captain Hohenloe was ill. The Principal Medical Officer would be outraged, but he decided...after a moment's hesitation, to trust Sergeant Kammler, and not send a rescue party but rather a flight to check up on the Captain and assist her.

Neverthless, he felt a chill in his belly, and a longing for the bottle of schnapps in his trunk. With a sense of deep foreboding, he decided to throw himself into dut. Rising, he went up to the bridge.

The other major report, von Ihengen's landing, was met with interest, and it was decided to send a biological team down to take a look at the creature and determine if it would be safe to dissect it. Certainly photograph it, at the very least.

He just hoped to almighty God that the Admiral didn't try to contact him before the Captain was awake again.

Thendara

The medical Aerodyne made a sound of high pitched air hissing down a tunnel as it flew up, over the plain and towards Thendara. Warrant Officer Pemsel, the pilot, exclaimed, "A stirring sight, is it not?"
"I'll be a sight more stirred when we've managed to check on the Captain." replied the medical officer, Lieutenant Julius Fritsch. His nickname was Gloomy Gus on the ship, and he was a tall Uriah Heep of a man, who was known to become depressed by a fleck of eggshell in his omelet.
"What are you circling for, man?" demanded the medic. He glanced at his assistance, who were holding their straps and sitting on the benches to the rear a bit grimly as they felt the g's of a sharp turn.
"Waiting for the beacon. This is a strange city, can't just land anywhere! Look, a caravan below! How picturesque, eh, Hoffmann?" he quipped to his copilot.
"Damn, watch where you're flying!" exclaimed Fritsch.
"Look, your Honor, you can tell me how to fly, with the greatest respect, when I tell you how to tie off an artery. Right? Ah, there we go!" there was a greenish flash from one the towers of the castle, and it was repeated regularly. They could see a figure who was definitely in the uniform of the Imperial Marines, so they made for it. With a neat turn and a slowing of the vents, the Aerodyne landed on the tower.
"Neat as a needle." said Pemsel with satisfaction. Hoffmann, who was barely old enough to shave, smiled shyly. With a curt nod, Fritsch, thinking briefly of how damned insubordinate these pilots could be, said, "Let's go," to the two field medics and hurried down the descending ramp.
"She's actually in stable condition, your honor," said Kammler, clicking his heels and coming to attention.
"I'll be the judge of that, sergeant," snorted Fritsch. "Lead the way, please."
"Yes Sir." Kammler had not earned his stripes by not learning how to handle officers. "Sir, the Captain very specifically wants us not to offend these people." he was respectful but he gave the medical officer a rather stern look. When he was sure it had had at least some effect...which it had, for Fritsch was taken aback, and then realized that he was being given serious advice...he led them down towards the chamber where the Captain was resting.

Ruyven, on Marcus’ orders, had requested a detail of guardsmen to overlook the strangers in Thendara Castle. Their orders were to ask no questions, maintain a friendly demeanor, merely to observe, and to report. The cadet in charge of the detail, Jasek Lanart, was sufficiently laran-gifted to report to Ruyven personally, if needed. The arrival of another of the potentially deadly sky-things seemed to merit such a report, although Jasek knew that Ruyven was finally asleep after many hours on his feet.

Ruyven felt himself swimming back up into consciousness with a diffident, but insistent, inner voice in his ear. “Dom di Asturien, Dom di Asturien… please awaken, vai Dom.” With a sudden blink and rush of awakening he recognized the voice of the young Cadet. The report startled him. Apparently the strangers felt no hesitation at all about bringing one of their… their air-conveyances… right into the City! It argued an arrogance that made his blood boil. Cared they nothing for the usages of good manners and diplomatic custom?

But Marcus had been most stern in his direction. As he dressed, Ruyven thought, and then issued a few quick orders. The Regent had just retired, one of the guards told him. Should he be awakened?

No. Aldones knew, Marcus had been awake for nearly two days, dealing, first with the business of getting the Council sorted, and then with this latest crisis. He ordered a second squad of guardsmen to reinforce the detachment under Jasek’s command. He sent a servant to the Ridenow quarters to fetch Camilla— if she could talk to one of these barbarians, she could perhaps help with others. Finally, he went himself to the quarters where the barbarian leader had been taken.

Sternly, he disciplined the swelling rage that bloomed within him whenever he thought of the barbarians’ arrogant presumption in bringing their evil, sorcerous thing right into Comyn Castle itself!

Camilla’s maid awakened her with some difficulty. Her sleep had been that of exhaustion, in the wake of such intense laran use. For years, she’d done little more than minor telepathic or empathic communication with her children, and that seldom. She’d practically forgotten she had laran—the Ridenow donas, in full measure. But aside from a half-year at Tramontana after her own threshold sickness had ended, those many years back, she’d done nothing with it. Her father’s guardsmen had fetched her from the Tower to marry Edric, the Heir to the Ridenow Domain, and she’d counted herself fortunate.

At least, until she’d gotten to know Edric.

With an effort, she pulled herself awake. “Wha… Jarela…? What is it? Gareth? Something wrong?” She sat up, eyes wide, then blinked and shielded them with her hand from the light of the lamp her maid was holding.

“Domna, it is the Regent’s men. They ask that you come, at once. Something about a stranger…”

Blinking harder, Camilla tried to collect her thoughts. A stranger?

Of course! The very strange stranger-woman, in her threshold sickness. Had she taken a sudden turn for the worse?

Swallowing, she gestured for Jarela to set the lamp on the table. “Bring me a gown, something easy to lace,” she said as she thrust her feet into the soft, heelless slippers, felt-lined, beside her bed. In a few moments, she was hastily coiling her hair and fastening it under a veil, while Jarela fastened the gown. “Send for two of our men, whoever is on duty. I cannot go among the strangers unescorted, it would not be seemly. In fact, you’d best come with me, Jarela.”

There were Castle guardsmen, in the Regent’s livery, waiting outside the Ridenow suite to escort her. They set a swift pace. The room where she’d left the stranger woman was in the Hastur suite, adjacent to the huge Castle’s public and official rooms. Comyn Castle Tower contained some of the old matrix-generators, and the corridors were well-lit by softly glowing crystal-core lamps fixed to the walls.

When they arrived, the Castle guardsmen stood aside. She remembered the man—Domna Hockhenlow’s paxman? She’d forgotten his name, but the face was familiar. He was standing just inside the door, watching a tall, rather cadaverous-looking man in the weird garb of the strangers, who was…

Touching Domna Hockhenlow!!

Involuntarily, Camilla lurched forward, a hand out. “No! You mustn’t!”

Domna Hockhenlow was already stirring uncomfortably, her head thrashing from side to side abruptly, as the man’s unchecked, unregulated energy flows disturbed the careful balance of her own fragile channels.

The early, acute stage of threshold sickness—all the more acute for not having been recognized and treated immediately—was the most dangerous time, when the channels that carried the body’s energon flows were distorted, overloaded from the onslaught of laran. Until they were stabilized, the balance was delicate indeed. An unwary touch, even sustained close contact, with someone who was not carefully matching and shielding their own energies, could disturb the balance, causing waves of nausea, disorientation, and pain. Such incidents made it harder to stabilize the channels, harder to stimulate the body’s own self-regulating mechanisms so that the extra flow of laran could be comfortably integrated with the sexual and physical energies that normally occupied those channels.

Catching herself abruptly—he was a strange man after all—Camilla shook her head vigorously, and gestured to him to get away from the bed.

Fritsch heard the sound of someone squawking in the native language, whatever the devil it was...he tried to hold onto Karen, who was moaning like a woman with a fever, which she seemed to bloody well have. One of his orderlies came in and looked shocked at the confusion momentarily, the fool. "Over here Schnurrbarrt, rot you!" he shouted. "And get that fool woman out or shut her up!"

"She doesn't want you to touch the Captain, Sir." said Kammler.
"Oh God, another doctor!" moaned Fritsch.
Kammler, a man of action, turned to the foreign lady, bowed slightly and pantomimed as best he could, pointing at Karen, pretending to touch her, and then looking at her inquiringly. He was not a man of deep thought or words, but he also tried to convey a simple fact: whatever the Captain needed, he would do. He was almost surprised to find this feeling in him, but it was as if the very flag he served was wrapped around her...

In her concern for the stranger woman, at first Camilla did not see the paxman’s gestures. But as the strange man touching Domna Hockhenlow ignored her, she looked around, and her head tilted forward slightly as she watched Kammler, with concentration. He seemed to understand, and she nodded, vigorously, pantomiming “no touch,” with a point to the woman on the bed, and then her own hand reaching and pulling back, suddenly.

The effects of threshold sickness did not include any kind of inflammation or fever, but the slight flush on Domna Hockhenlow’s cheeks and brow certainly reflected her body’s unconscious effort to do something with the pain caused by the uncontrolled, energies using her channels. Camilla remembered the leronis who had helped her with ‘Sendra’s threshold sickness describing what the channels “looked” like when she was in matrix rapport with her eldest daughter.

“There should be a smooth, even, pulsing flow, like the merest ripple of pale light and motion, from here, through, here, and here… with slightly brighter points here and here… to here,” the woman had said abstractedly, her hand gliding from ‘Sendra’s temples and neck, down the center of her body, pausing briefly at throat, mid-chest, lower belly, and pubis. “Instead, a mix of smoky darkness and too-bright flashes… swirling heavily here… and here…obstructed…” Her fingers had lightly swept over temples and belly, “And almost nothing here,” …the throat and mid-chest area. “We must bring the energies into alignment, so they flow evenly and smoothly throughout.”

She’d taught Camilla, then, how to use awareness through her own matrix. Camilla didn’t perceive the energon flows as clearly as the leronis, to her it was just a tactile sense, rather like the energy in the air before a heavy storm, borne on a breeze. In some places heavy and too still, in others light and sharp. Each of her children’s bouts with threshold sickness had been a little different, but she’d learned to sense the energies reliably, and coax them into the proper flow, letting the body learn how to manage them gradually as the stresses stabilized.

Come to think of it, the woman on the bed, with her slight gleam of copper in the fair hair, and the clear-cut features (her nose was very similar to the Ridenow high bridge and sharp-cut nostrils,) bore a considerable resemblance to ‘Sendra. About the same age, too. Which might explain the fierce protectiveness she felt toward the stranger woman.

She looked at the paxman. Her features were softened, muted by the veil that covered them, but the sincerity in her eyes was clear as she shook her head, and gestured to the bed.

Fritsch was getting annoyed at the implications of weird foreign mumbo jumbo, and even more when the marine sergeant said firmly, "I believe Your Honor should move away from the bed. Now."
Fritsch had been in the service long enough to take an NCO seriously when this sort of thing was said, so he moved away, and muttered, "What the devil, Sergeant? This is a medical matter."
"Your Honor, the thing is...it's not just their customs. The Captain seems to have had some kind of psychic powers awaken. And these people know about it. I know it has something to do with that. I can't explain how, but..."
They were now whispering rather vehemently.
"Sergeant, if the Captain doesn't get well because of your intereference, you will answer for it."
Kammler said nothing. He just gave the medic a level gaze and then turned back to watch what the ladies were doing.

Camilla watched the man move away from Domna Hockhenlow, and gave him an apologetic smile. He’d been trying to help, clearly.

But he wasn’t paying attention to her, as he pursued his discussion with the Domna’s paxman. She approached the bed, irresistibly drawn by the link already established through her previous contact with the woman, and the pain she could sense vividly through her own laran. Biting her lip, she turned her back on all the men present, and lifted her veil so that she could see more clearly as she bent over the bed.

Her left hand went to her throat, fingers pushing aside the insulating bag over her matrix even as her right hand stretched out, hovering. She reached, in an indefinable way, into the swirling currents of knotted, pulsing energy, raw with pain. Unskilled in the more advanced techniques of matrix-healing, she could rely only on her basic Ridenow gift. She would have to clear the channels a bit, before she could realign the energy flows. She could do that, but only by bleeding away the pain, taking it into her own channels, willingly sharing the agony.

But she was prepared, and could deal with it— her second son had been careless on occasion, as he was passing the threshold, and she’d more than once had to assist him when he’d let things build up beyond his emerging abilities to manage. With a deep, steadying breath, she allowed herself to drop into rapport.

The pain was unpleasant. She could feel it flowing in, channeled it, locked it away from her immediate awareness. She’d deal with it later. The woman’s energy channels were strong and well-established, unlike a malleable adolescent, and that helped as she untangled the energies and coaxed them into a regular flow. A day or two of sleep or semi-consciousness would allow the flows to “settle” into the channels and diminish. Domna Hockhenlow must have been using her laran far more than she realized, to produce such an overload.

She would have to be taught, then, the techniques that comyn youth were taught, to manage their own threshold sickness— sensitivity to their own laran and its flow, to know when surges were building up and to cut them off and/or help her body’s developing reflexes route them into the channels smoothly. It was not difficult, although without a matrix-stone it would require considerable effort.

With the pain pounding at the edges of her own consciousness, she sighed, and straightened up, letting her veil drop. Again, weariness overwhelmed her. She turned, and sought out Ruyven di Asturien, the Regent’s paxman. He was standing near the doorway, seemingly relaxed, but she caught the tension in his shoulders.

“Dom di Asturien, there seems to be nothing wrong with Domna Hockhenlow beyond a relatively mild, and normal, attack of threshold sickness. If she can rest for a day or two, I can help her learn to manage it when she wakens, but perhaps a leronis should see her, as well. There may be… differences… in these strangers.” She sighed with weariness. “The lady’s paxman,” she gestured to Kammler, “seems to understand the need for her to remain quiet. Perhaps someone with better communications skills can make it clear to these other men. I would be happy to assist, but I am sure that my husband would not approve of me spending so much time among these men.”

Two lines appeared, furrowing between her brows, as the pain impinged more insistently upon her consciousness. She really must have quiet and rest to deal with it. With a rather blind nod in the direction of the lady’s paxman, she gestured to Jarela, and her guardsmen, and left.

Aldaran’s Domain

Esteban took some time, every day, to exercise the hunting animal that had been the strangers’ gift to him. He was rather surprised to find himself missing the strangers, especially Hochswender. He’d been making real progress in learning their language, he felt, though their outlandish pronunciation was difficult. It felt like chewing on a mouthful of bad-tasting nut-porridge, sometimes, a combination of gargling and spitting. Still he’d learned a good many words, and had been making progress in figuring out how to string them together intelligibly. These, too, he practiced. If –no, when— the strangers returned, he wanted to be able to communicate.

In the mean time, there was a full tray of duties to be managed every day. The encounter with bandits on their way back to Aldaran, and Ragal’s death, had been discussed with his father, and Dom Gabriel had agreed, it would be imperative to set up a system of patrols, and to train a body of men. They would have to find the source of the bandit scum, and mount a sustained and decisive attack, if possible.

The patrols were briefed, and sent ranging widely. All were men with mountain experience, hunters, trackers, herders, wise in the ways of weather and beast in the Hellers.

It was some tendays before one of the patrols happened upon a most peculiar find.


Stavin MacBannal, the patrol leader, high on a trail overlooking a small, flat plateau, stared at the assortment of weird shapes… round, rectangular, shiny… He scanned the area further. Bones. Banshee bones. They’d been picked clean, too—probably by another banshee, though kyorebni had certainly helped. His eyes narrowed as he checked the surrounding rock peaks and terrain for signs of a lair or a regular track.

There was a cleft, there, among the jagged rocks pushing through the snow cover. That would be the place, certainly, if the evil birds made their way regularly to this flattened plateau. He gestured Piedro Larris forward, pointing at the plateau, and explained the situation. Not willingly would any of them have wandered onto that plateau, a natural hunting ground for banshees, without careful preparations. These they made, wrapping their heads securely to shut out sound, and posting bowmen along the jagged rocks where they could easily see a predator approaching, and give visual warning. In pairs, then, (one member of each pair to keep an eye on the lookouts,) they descended to examine the strange objects.

Zandru’s hells! They were… could they be… metal? There was a touch of awe in Stavin’s gaze as he approached the nearest of the objects, a huge, round, concave plate.

Marine Neumann was in the observation post. He was a bit nervous; seeing the huge bird, being all but paralyzed by that awful scream would have worried anyone. However, he had his motion detector and range finder. Fortunately they were really big.
The motion detector went off. What he was getting implied bipeds...he hoped to God it wasn't a flock of the horrible birds. He radioed back and said, "Lieutenant, I have movement. Anyone out on patrol in that direction?"
There was a pause, and then: "That's a negative, Marine. Continue to observe."
Inside the outpost, von Ihengen quietly said, "Stand to, everyone. Something else is out there."
Neumann suddenly realized that the approaching figures were human, and he called out, "Halt!" from his concealed position.
Comyn Castle, Thendara

Sergeant Kammler was used to waiting, but he wanted very much to know what Frau Camilla's diagnosis was. He did not pace, but he did fidget his fingers now and then. Lieutenant Fritsch made a disgrunted report to Commander Groll, who frowned and began to prepare his own report to Admiral von Schiller.

Riding through the streets of Thendara had been like riding through the villages, only more so. At least here, there were City Guardsmen to keep the crowds well back from the banner and the person of the Keeper of Arilinn, the most powerful woman on Darkover, regarded with superstitious awe by the commoners and engrained respect by the nobles. As they rode through the streets, and word passed like wildfire that the Lady of Arilinn had come to Thendara, the crowds thickened. Caitlyn had no share of the Ridenow empathic laran, but it needed none to feel the excitement of the throngs that greeted her.

Not that any would dare to accost her, or even approach —after all, a man who touched a Keeper without permission could be subjected to horrible punishments— but a crowd like this could easily become a mob. Fortunately, the temper of this crowd was mostly positive: Awe, reverence, a certain yearning hunger (for what? for what? Caitlyn wondered again in frustration,) and the excitement of being able to tell children and grandchildren that they had actually seen the holy virgin of Arilinn.

When they did arrive at Thendara Castle, it was something of a pleasant surprise to be greeted, not by the usual elaborate ceremonials, but by Ellemir Moray-Ardais, Marcus’ wife.

“Caitlyn, you lend us grace… A timely arrival, indeed. Jeran Alton told us of your coming; your chamber has been readied.” She continued telepathically as she escorted Caitlyn. “Marcus wanted me to prepare you… Caitlyn!” Ellemir’s mental voice was intense with some powerful emotion. “Tendays ago, you spoke to Marcus in Comyn Tower… About that Aldaran woman’s precognition, people from the stars… they’re here! Actually here, in Thendara! They came in strange carts, from beyond the moons, to the Plain of Thendara outside the Hali Gate. All the Gods protect us…” Her thoughts wavered with emotion… Fear? Excitement? And when they arrived… some terrible laran surge, some kind of… of… bolt struck down Javanne, and she lies so deeply unconscious, even Carylla cannot contact her. Everyone in the Castle with laran felt it, but we do not know whence it came —many are saying it was the strangers from the stars, that they have some kind of powerful laran no one has ever felt before.”

Caitlyn was blinking, trying to take it in. Their view over the Plain had showed them the strange craft, she’d known of the strangers’ arrival. But this news about Javanne… They had reached her chamber; she sank into a chair as Ellemir continued, verbally now that they were in private. “And perhaps it is true that they caused it, for one of the strangers —a woman, Marcus says she is some kind of leader among them— seems to have laran, at least, Camilla Ridenow can sense it, and she —the stranger woman, I mean— seems to have some kind of threshold sickness. Merciful Avarra, Caitlyn! What are the God sending us?”

Ellemir swallowed, staring at Caitlyn, who had drawn back her veil as they sat. The Keeper’s face showed her bewilderment as she tried to sort out all of this incredible information, delivered at Ellemir’s usual breakneck pace. She shook her head, slowly.

“I had not thought it would be so soon.”

“Lord of Light, what shall we do?” she murmured softly to herself, thinking of the nearly-empty Towers, hobbled by superstition and ignorance. She glanced sharply at Ellemir. “Marcus has communicated with these folk?”

Ellemir related what her husband had told her of the first visit, with the arrogant man, of Jeran’s arrival and his news of the strangers, and then of the second visitation from the stranger woman, who had collapsed. That some among them had laran was no news to Caitlyn; the rapport with Shavanni Storn had been enough to establish that. But something destructive enough to strike down Javanne? Why? And what? Perhaps it had been inadvertent. Camilla Ridenow—ah, yes, the Ridenow donas, that would be useful in trying to communicate with the strangers. Briefly, she regretted her own lack of foresight in bringing Carvala di Asturien as her escort, rather than Ellana. But the need to train a new Keeper had seemed to take precedence. She would have to try and work with what was available here, perhaps with Camilla herself.

She remembered meeting Camilla at the old King’s funeral years ago, and feeling sorry for her, married to that oaf, Edric. Camilla thought the stranger woman was experiencing threshold sickness. That argued uncontrolled laran; perhaps whatever had stricken Javanne was unintentional. Caitlyn desperately wanted to see the stranger woman, and Marcus, and Jeran Alton… but Javanne would have to come first. She sighed. She was weary from the journey, but that would have to be put aside. Fortunately she could use her laran to draw on a Keeper’s powerful reserves of energy, but it would have been nice to have a rest and a bath.

“Ellemir, where is Javanne? Comyn Tower?”

The Regent’s wife nodded. “Carylla Alar is with her.”

Ruyven di Asturien nodded. “You’d best get some rest, Domna,” he told Camilla. She was no leronis, that much concentrated matrix work had to be exhausting. “I will try to make them understand.” He glanced at the man who had caught the woman when she’d collapsed in the Regent’s study. It made sense that he was a paxman, otherwise why would he be permitted to touch the woman, make decisions about her well-being? He bowed, a little distractedly, as Camilla left, and turned to the man.

Marcus had been very firm about how he wanted matters relating to the strangers handled. Ruyven’s own anger at their unbidden entry to Comyn Castle with another of those horrible sky-things of theirs would have to be put aside. He didn’t have Marcus’ diplomatic skill, of course, but he’d do his best. Trying not to frown with concentration —after all, it might be misinterpreted— he started with an introduction, pointing to himself.

“Ruyven di Asturien,” he said. He thought about trying to tell them he was the Regent’s paxman, but decided that might only confuse things. Keep it simple. He pointed to the door where Camilla had left.

“Domna Lanart-Ridenow,” he said slowly, as clearly as possible, then pointed to the bed where the leader woman lay. “Domna… Hock-hen-low…?” his pronunciation was uncertain. He nodded, and smiled, trying to convey that the threshold sickness was not serious. “All right. Soon.” Camilla had said she should sleep for another day, at least… how to convey that? With the best will not to frown, his brows drew together briefly as he concentrated for a moment, then pillowed his head on his hands. “Sleep.” He couldn’t think of a way to convey ‘day’ so he left it at that. They’d just have to wait until Camilla, or possibly one of the leroni from Comyn Tower, returned.

But he did reinforce one thing, pointing to the woman on the bed, and drawing his hand back, quickly, and shaking his head firmly, frowning. “Do not touch.” He peered at the man, trying to figure out whether he understood, and repeated the gesture. “Do not touch, yes?”

Aldaran's Domain--Deep in the Hellers

With their heads securely wrapped against the banshee’s scream, Stavin and Piedro moved slowly, carefully toward the huge metal dish. That was what it looked like, Stavin thought, a gigantic soup dish, tilted on its side. Piedro dearly wanted to look at it, too, but he kept his eyes on the two lookout men on the ridge, in case they sighted a banshee. He paced Stavin, using peripheral vision, and stopped when he did.

The Hellers
Marine Neumann gaped and shook his head. Maybe they needed a version of "Achtung Minen" in the local lingo or something. He said, "Sir, they're ignoring me, and in fact they have some kind of bundling around their heads."
"Alright, Neumann, fire a warning shot." said the Lieutenant, his voice calm.
Sure, his Honor is calm. thought Neumann. However, it occured to him that if they couldn't hear him shouting they might not even hear the crack of the rifle. He said, "Lieutenant, I think I should stand up and let them see me."
There was a pause.
"Alright, Marine Neumann. We'll cover you from here."
Taking a deep breath, Neumann stood up; his assault rifle held at order arms, very much not threatening but being as obvious as he could.

Thendara

Sergeant Kammler bowed in response to the native man, clicking his heels and doing the abrupt bow and hold that was the custom in Lavenrunz. Then he listened to the words. He did not understand many of them, but he had begun to get the idea of 'don't touch' and so he nodded, raising his hands as if to pull them away from the Captain. He also offered, "It's 'Ho-khen-low'."
Lieutenant Fritsch came in and said, "Sergeant, the Commander is demanding a situation report."
"I recommend, your Honor," said Kammler, turning to him, "That you tell him the situation is complicated."
"Yes." Fritsch said. "But my recommendation must be this: that the Captain is in no shape currently to be in command until her recovery."
Kammler said nothing, since it was blatantly true.
"Sergeant, you and I are to remain here, pending the Captain's recovery. That is all our orders for now." Fritsch looked glum at the prospect...more than usual, even.

Beowulf, Near Orbit of Cottman IV

Commander Groll found himself facing the formidable countenance of Admiral von Schiller over the videocom.
"Commander, you have basically told me that the senior marine contingent officer decided he was going to personally conquer the planet and has been arrested for countervening the Captain's orders. Following this, the Captain entered the citadel of the native regime and fell into a mysterious illness that has something to do with the awakening of her psychic powers. And that as a result all negotiations with the natives are postponed. The only actual landing spots are one outside their capital which must be considered temporary at best, while the other is a miserable ice besmitted hell of a plateau in an inhospitable mountain range." He paused looking colding into Groll's eyes with his own, not much warmer than the frozen peaks of the Hellers.
"This is true, Excellency." said Groll, who because of the vidscreen was standing at attention along with Doctor Kotzebue who was also there.
"And in addition, I am given to understand that the only other person who appeared to have these psychic powers amongst our crew has mutinied for personal reasons." the Admiral's face twisted in scorn at this last.
"Yes, Excellency, that is true." confessed Groll. "If I may shed a little light on--"
"You may not." the Admiral brooded a moment. Then he said, "Commander, Captain Hohenloe has my fullest confidence, do you understand? But thus far this mission has been unlucky. Bad luck is as bad as incompetence when there is too much of it. You will maintain the current situation. You will find Science Officer Pfommer. And you will give the matter of the Captain's recovery a day. Then report to me. Understand?"
"Excellency." Groll bowed, clicking his heels. The Admiral nodded to someone offscreen and the vidscreen went blank.
Kotzebue looked at him. "I should like to go to the city myself, and try to find out what is going on. From what I understand, it is just a medic and Sergeant Kammler there."
Groll sighed. "As you wish. What theories do you have?"
"Well, my impression is that the manifestation of the Captain's psychic abilities did not result in the confusion and surprise it has among us. Therefore such abilities are less rare than with us. It is likely that some kind of sensory overload took place; something similar to shock but on a neurological level. The second idea I have is this: whether it is artifacts or some arcane understanding, they have access to some kind of science unknown to us. However, this is more based on my intuition of the manner in which they responded to our technology. Not so much that it existed but...the way in which it existed." Kotzebue waved a hand at Groll, whose eyes were beginning to glaze. "Yes, yes, I know. But I'll be able to form a better picture for you once I've gone back down. I tell you, there is something we're missing about these people. Clearly a lost colony, and clearly they've lived on this planet long enough to form a culture--"
"Enough, Doctor. You may go with the first shuttle down." said Groll wearily.

When the Regent awakened, Ruyven was sent for immediately. As he ate, Marcus listened to his paxman’s report on all that had occurred while he was resting. At the news that the strangers had brought one of their filthy machines into the City— to the Castle itself, he frowned.

“Apparently they have no civilized means of transportation —no horses to ride— and they are too lazy, or perhaps too physically debilitated to walk,” Ruyven commented pungently.

The Regent’s frown deepened. “Dangerous assumptions, Ruyven. Their ways differ. Uncivilized to us, yes. But we understand as little of them as they of us. And that is a perilous situation, indeed.” He was silent a moment, thoughtful. “Information is our greatest need; for that we need to learn their tongue, so that we can understand their words—and much more. And, as they appear to wish to communicate with us, as well, likely they will not object to teaching us.”

Ruyven was astounded. “We are to learn their tongue?”

Hastur nodded. “Yes.” He glanced at his paxman, debated explaining further, and decided to leave it at that. He had his reasons. “We need some bright young lads, good at languages, quick-witted and even-tempered. Not likely to take offense easily, or at least good at controlling their more obvious negative feelings. Two or three.” He fell silent again, running over the roster of young comyn in his mind. Young men of good family were required, upon turning fifteen, to do at least a year’s service in the Thendara City Guard as junior officers; some remained longer, so there was a good selection of young sprouts from which to choose.


Valentin Serrais-Elhalyn was surprised at his summons to the Regent’s study, but of course he saluted and apologized to the weapons-master who was drilling him, even though the man was a commoner. It was good policy to be gracious to commoners, and Valentin never lost sight of good policy. He took a bare minimum of time to wash and put on a clean cadet’s tunic, before following the man in Hastur livery. But Valentin was one of those fortunate individuals who always looked more or less tidy, and that combined with his good looks to make him presentable even with a minimum of effort.

He was curious, when he reached the study, to see Aric Kadarin and Danilo Castamir also approaching. They were admitted to the Regent’s study immediately.

Hastur was alone, save his paxman Ruyven di Asturien. They exchanged polite greetings, and waited to hear the reason for their summons from the Regent of the Domains. He looked them over, scrutinizing them carefully.

Valentin, Rafael’s nedestro half-brother, was a well-known quantity. Although he did not court popularity, his good looks and skills at all of the standard young-manly activities had won him a fair circle of admirers, both male and female. He rarely let his personal feelings show, but had a reputation for being good at dealing with difficult commanders and peers in the City Guard. He was ambitious, Hastur knew, as well as extremely intelligent, but he had already demonstrated that he could be both patient and flexible in achieving his ends—if a trifle ruthless.

Aric Kadarin was a close friend of Rafael’s, and well-esteemed by his commanders in the Guards for level-headed commonsense and good judgment. He was also from the foothills of the Lorillard ranges, not far from Carthon, and spoke the Dry-Towner’s tongue well. He’d been able to pick up a good understanding of the forge-folks’ strange dialect, too. He lacked initiative and was only a middling swordsman, but he was well-liked by the men who served in the Guard and had been marked by his superior officers as one to encourage to make a career in the Guard.

Danilo Castamir was a very large young man with auburn-tinged light-brown hair and unshakeably placid good nature. He was also a strong telepath and after completing his year in the Guards, had just begun spending another year in Comyn Tower, learning a matrix mechanic’s work. Carylla had told Hastur that he was gifted at communicating with the non-human kyrri who served in the Tower, and had an ear for the local dialects of the fishermen and coastal sailors around his native Temora.

“Valentin and Aric, I’ve asked Lord Alton to detach you for special duty, Danilo, Carylla has approved your temporary assignment to this endeavor. I am sending the three of you to learn the language and the ways of these strangers who have come from the stars,” the Regent said bluntly. The three young men goggled, with Valentin recovering his poise first, and assuming an expression of studious interest.

“May I ask, vai Dom, just how you wish us to undertake this effort?” he enquired respectfully.

Hastur nodded. “It may be problematic. I suggest that you approach their craft, and attempt to communicate with them there. The details I will leave to you, but the faster you can learn their language, the better for all concerned—including these strangers. Danilo, you will report daily to Carylla, and all of you are to return to the City at least once in a tenday to give a fuller report in person, to me.” With a nod, he dismissed them.

Valentin kept an expression of thoughtful curiosity on his face, but inwardly he was exultant. At last! A chance to distinguish himself, to do something essential, make a place in the inner circle of the advisors to the Regent and the Council. Although his nedestro status was considered a bar to any consideration of him as heir to the crown, Valentin could not but be aware that there were a good many among the nobility who would far rather see him on the throne than his semi-idiot legitimate half-brother Rafael. Perhaps this assignment would put him in a position to demonstrate just how superior his abilities and skills really were—for all of Darkover.

Aric’s expression was tinged with concern. The vast array of difficulties was obvious to him. Would they be able to make the strangers understand what they were sent for? Would the strangers accept them, be willing to teach them? How long would it take? What if they unwittingly offended against some custom of the strangers? And what if —he restrained himself from a glance at Valentin— something the strangers did offended them? He wished he could take the time to talk to Rafael before they went, but the Regent had indicated that he wanted them to start immediately. They were already on their way to the stables.

Danilo was contemplating the additional instructions he’d had from Carylla. ‘Never let your matrix be seen, never use it in the presence of the strangers. Do nothing to make them think they are dealing with laran, and say nothing of laran to any of them. Find out, however, all that you can about their sorcery and how many of them might have laran of any kind.’ The Towers were depending on him, she’d said. The Keeper of Arilinn, herself, would be reviewing the information he gained.

It was not long before the three youths rode across the Plain of Thendara to the craft parked there. They wore the clothing of young men of noble family, not the tunics of Cadets or the more simple clothing that Tower telepaths generally affected for all but the most formal occasions. Valentin explained their orders to the Sergeant commanding the City Guard detail that maintained a watch on the strangers, and then they turned their horses toward the huge metal monster and the oddly-dressed strangers who seemed to be on sentry there.

Aldaran’s Domain—Deep in the Hellers

It was Marko, scanning from the ridge with his bow ready, who saw the bizarre figure pop seemingly out of nowhere. Despite the peculiar clothing, there was only one explanation: One of Hawkfist’s bandits. No one else would come, unbidden, this far into the Lord of Mountains’ territory, without visits of courtesy and proper permission. But why would a bandit be moving about in the Hellers unarmed? The man bore neither sword nor knife!

Stavin’s eyes were glued to the huge metal disk, he was approaching it cautiously, wide-soled snow boots giving him proper weight distribution and traction on the deep snow (providing he moved carefully.) It was Piedro, keeping an eye on the lookouts, who saw Marko’s handsignal, and followed the gesture to see the bandit, seemingly materialized from under a rock. His sword swept out as he touched Stavin’s arm.

Stavin’s sword, too, swept out, and the two men instantly assumed a pair-fighting, combat-ready stance. Piedro, assuming that not even a strangely-dressed bandit would be so foolish as to wander banshee territory with ears uncovered, gestured with his free hand towards Marko, whose bow now covered the bandit, a warning that the slightest move toward a weapon would result in, at the least, a crippling arrow-wound.

Warily, Stavin scanned the area for other members of the bandit company that must be here, drawn by the lure of so much metal… so much wealth.



Thendara Castle

Camilla had slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, awakened only when Edric’s loud complaints about his inability to find his green-dyed leather boots rose to shouting pitch. Sleepily, she opened her eyes, sighing, and sat up. She didn’t remember Jarela undressing her, but she was wearing a loose sleeping robe. In the next room, a tinkling thud indicated that Edric had reached the point of throwing things. Where in Zandru’s hells did he think his boots would be. With a small sound of exasperation, she thrust her feet into heelless slippers, and pulled on the fur-lined robe that lay across the foot of the bed.

As she stood, the door to the corridor eased open slightly, and Jerala peered around it, then opened it more fully at the sight of Camilla on her feet. “Domna,…”

Another thud, louder, from the next room. Her lips tightening briefly, Camilla went to the door between the two chambers and pulled the handle, warily standing out of the way of possible flying missiles as it opened. Her face was carefully neutral as she marched across the room, and opened the chest set under the tall clothes-press. With careful, deliberate movements, she removed the green-dyed leather boots and set them on the floor, standing precisely next to one another.

Without looking at the momentarily-silent Edric, she straightened up, and moved back toward her room.

“I suppose you feel clever, eh?” He snarled at her as she reached the door. “If you had been up at a decent hour, woman, and about your proper duties, I’d not be delayed about my business, you see?”

“Yes, my husband. I am very sorry,” she murmured as she slipped through the door, closing it behind her. She’d learned decades ago that excuses only made things worse. Back then, his venom had been fresh, and strong. Now after so many years of living together, it was old and tired, almost routine. If she avoided anything deliberately provocative, he generally contented himself with disagreeable remarks, and lost interest quickly.

She bathed, and dressed, and gave Jerala instructions about cleaning up Edric’s chamber and replacing the water jug and basin he’d thrown while she ate a bowl of nut porridge. A cup of hot jaco helped make her feel more like facing the day, although it seemed to rekindle the slight edge of a headache that had disturbed most of her dreams. Pulling out her matrix-stone, she took a couple of deep breaths, and smoothed out the tension and constricted blood flow, letting the headache leach away.

A glance at the red sun, visible through the window, told her it was well past midday. Likely Domna Hockhenlow would be stirring. If no leronis had yet visited her, it would be necessary for Camilla to tend to her. She sent Jerala to enquire.

No, no one had been near the stranger woman since she’d left her, yesterday. Camilla donned a veil, sent for a couple of guardsmen, and went to the Hastur apartments.

Hastur’s servants were clearing away the remnants of a midday meal which had been provided to the lady’s paxman and the other strangers. With a murmured greeting to Kammler, Camilla approached the bed. The woman was lying still, breathing the shallow, slow, even breaths of comfortable sleep. As Camilla focused on her matrix stone and dropped lightly into rapport, she could feel the woman’s consciousness surface a level… not quite awake, but nearly there. The edge of dream-vision wisped away as Camilla felt for the flow of laran.

It was much clearer, lighter. The swirling vortices were gone, though the flow was not yet as even and robust as it should be. Camilla frowned a little, in a quandary. If this had been one of her children, she’d have wakened them now, and explained verbally what had happened and what was needed. Such would require no use of the child’s laran, which should be avoided. But in this case, how could she communicate with Domna Hockhenlow without using laran?

She’d have to awaken, and eat, in any case. Her body’s resources were depleted. Camilla turned to Jerala. “Fetch some broth, and bread, fruit juice, and soft cheese.” Inspiration struck. “And kirian.”

The psychoactive liquor, taken in a tiny amount, should make it easier for them to communicate in rapport, without requiring too much effort on Domna Hockhenlow’s part. Then, if she slept again, until evening, perhaps, she might be well enough to resume some activity, with regular checks by a leronis to assist her in learning the techniques needed.

Jerala and the girl Nalla returned, with trays. Nalla set the food on one of the small tables and moved it nearer the side of the bed. Jerala carried a small tray with a flask of kirian and two tiny cups.

Gently, through the light rapport she had already established, Camilla nudged Domna Hockhenlow toward consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered briefly, and opened. Camilla smiled at her, and put a finger to her lips. Turning to Jerala, she poured one, two, three drops… no more… into the tiny glass cup, and held it to the woman’s lips, smiling encouragingly.

Blinking, Karen swallowed, catching sight of Kammler beyond the Darkovan woman, nodding reassuringly. The sharp, volatile tang of the liquor seemed to stab briefly, behind her nose, then she could feel the odd sensation of her consciousness opening out, hyper-aware of Camilla, as though she was floating toward her in some odd, insubstantial ballet. Disoriented, she closed her eyes.

That helped. Even with her eyes closed, she could ‘see’ the older woman clearly, in an odd double vision that overlaid the physical reality of Camilla’s aging self over a deep inner perception…a much younger woman, with vibrant red-gold hair and delicate features. With a smile, the Darkovan woman did something indescribable and ‘caught’ Karen’s floating consciousness, meshing it with her own. Karen could ‘hear’ the shape of words, but the meaning was more direct, mind-to-mind… Camilla’s words were in casta, Karen’s in her native Lavenrunzian speech, yet they understood one another.

“Domna, you have a condition we call threshold sickness. It happens when laran (sorcery) awakens within. The flow of this energy uses physical channels in your body that are also used by other energies. When used unwarily, or without proper control and skill, the flow of laran overloads these channels, and this condition results. It is not serious, unless it continues uncontrolled for an extended time, when it can do serious damage.”

“To keep it from recurring, you need to do three things: First, you need to rest, now, to give your body a chance to cope with this overload. Second, you need to stop using your laran until you have a better understanding of how to use and control it, to keep it from overloading within you. Third, you must learn how to use it properly. It is not difficult, but it takes practice. A leronis (sorceress,) can teach you.”

“Do you understand, chiya?” The endearment slipped into Camilla’s thoughts unbidden. This young stranger reminded her so much of ’Sendra, so far away in Lindisholme.

The Hellers

With a frustrated groan, Neumann realized that these fellows did not get it at all. He couldn't believe he was being threatened with a sword. "Achtung! Minen!" he shouted, trying to pantomime 'You go there, you die!' He said, "Lieutenant, I'm not sure that these fellows understand me. We should deactivate the mines."
"Understood, Marine Neumann. In fact, I'm coming out right after that."
Neumann felt relieved. He didn't want to be stuck with dealing with what appeared to be a potentially very...explosive native situation. He almost laughed at the thought of what he had thought, and tightened his lips because of that.
From below the base of the dish, the clamshell doors of the bunker made a whining of hydraulics and opened neatly, with Von Ihengen and another Marine, Schumpeter, coming out. Von Ihengen had belted on a dress sword; for some reason the Captain had wanted officers to carry them. He felt awfully silly wearing it with the grey-blue winter greatcoat. A tall, grey eyed young man, he had the excellent beginnings of officer presence but still was youthful, still learning the skills of command.

Outside Thendara

As the riders approached, there was a roaring in the sky; Skyhammer One, the aerospace recon plane, had begun its mission to search for Iolanthe. The transport shuttle seemed to have sprouted young in the form of a number of shelters, their reflective skins gleaming, with various crewpersons milling about with boxes and pallets of goods. The marines saw the riders and one of them shouted "Halt! Sergeant, we have some people approaching." Further words they said were drowned out however as when the roaring diminished the high piched whining howling of an aerodyne replaced it, wind flurried and tugged and clothing as a transport came down, the ramp descending, and Doctor Kotzebue jauntily jumping out, his hair wild from the backdraft and clutching a silvery case. A marine officer approached, bowing, and gesturing towards the riders.

Inside Thendara

Karen lay back. She felt dismay, and said, "My dear friend--for friend you have been, and by all the honor of my House I shall not forget it--I have grave responsibilities, I cannot simply remain here. And who will do the negotiations?" she began to suddenly feel so dizzy, so overwhelmed with emotions that she all but fainted; only the extraordinary control trained into her from birth and in her military training enabled her to firm her jaw, clear her vision. "Please send Sergeant Kammler to me." she begged.

(Lavenrunz, please check TGs – question there)

The City Guard detachment had been instructed not to interfere with the strangers, unless they openly threatened any Darkovans, but merely to watch, and report. Lyondri had made certain that at least one cadet with laran was present at all times, and reporting directly to someone in Comyn Tower.

Danilo noticed that the current cadet was Aidan Moray. He remembered the young man from his own cadet service as a steady, attentive youngster. His branch of the Moray clan was poor as the proverbial snowlizard in Temora, so it was not surprising that a younger son appeared to be making a career of the Guard.

The hellish noise of another of the strangers’ filthy conveyances roared about their ears, and the three young men had to pay attention to controlling their horses, who not-unnaturally objected to the appalling sound. It went on and on, roaring, shrieking like all the demons in Zandru’s hells, and Danilo could not refrain from exchanging a dismayed glance with Aric. Valentin, mounted on a mettlesome dark-gray horse, demonstrated his horsemanship when the animal attempted, first to bolt, and then to rid itself of its rider, both without success. The creature stood, sweating, starting a little, and shivering from time to time, as the noise died away.

Danilo looked up. One of the strangers was approaching them. His own horse being more than a little spooked by the noise, he welcomed the requirements of courtesy, sliding from the animal’s back and giving a shallow bow, hand to heart, in the stranger’s direction as he approached. The others did the same.

Caitlyn sighed with relief as she and Carvala passed through the shielding screens that protected the matrix workers of Comyn Tower from the impinging consciousness of the Castle’s and the City’s inhabitants. She had not realized how much energy the constant, low-level screening of her own mind had cost her; it was a respite to let the effort slip away. In here was only the smooth, ordered, well-barriered flow of laran competently used and controlled.

A kyrri met them, with a low bow, and glided from the reception chamber only to be immediately replaced by a dark-haired girl. She, too, bowed low to the Keeper of Arilinn. “Vai teneresteis, you lend us grace. Welcome to Comyn Tower. I am Margwen Aillard, fourth in the Tower Circle.”

As she spoke, Caitlyn recognized her, familiar from the occasional touch and rapport through the lattice screens that allowed the Towers to communicate with one another. She nodded. “I thank you for your welcome, Margwen. This is Carvala di Asturien, of the Keeper’s Circle of Arilinn.” The two women exchanged courtesies. Margwen —she went by Gwen, Caitlyn remembered— turned back to Caitlyn. “Carylla Leynier is with Javanne, Domna, if you will please come? We are most concerned. Nothing we can do seems to be able to reach Javanne.”

The Arilinn telepaths followed Gwen to Javanne’s chambers. As they entered, Carylla Leynier, second in the Comyn Tower Circle, rose and greeted Caitlyn with both relief and profound respect. “Caitlyn! Avarra bless the roads that brought you to us.” She looked anxiously at the still figure on the bed, and back to the Keeper of Arilinn. “We cannot reach her. We know she is alive, her physical functions are intact, but at a very low level, almost like some kind of stasis.”

Caitlyn approached the bed, and her hand traveled to the fastening of the dress about her throat. She undid the clasp, and put the sides of the collar back, disclosing the filigreed copper collar that held her matrix. Bending her head, she focused on the presence of the woman on the bed. Her eyes were unfocused, but intent.

Strange. It was as though Javanne was not there, and yet she could sense a tiny thread that linked the body on the bed, the physical presence, to Javanne’s consciousness, somewhere else. Drawing lightly on Carvala’s strength as well as her own (for this might take some time, and a formidable expenditure of energy,) she projected herself into the Overworld, searching there. Of course, Carylla and the others would already have done that, nevertheless, it was important to be thorough, and methodical. The insubstantial medium with its projections of psychic energy was not much different than usual, as far as she could tell. The brightness that was Arilinn was curiously static, unsubdued but quiescent. Tramontana, vastly distant, showed modest activity.

Dalereuth, Neskaya… as Towers, they were major features of the Overworld, yet for all the accumulated psychic energy of centuries of matrix work, they were slightly dim at the moment. Of course, it was midday in Dalereuth, little matrix work would be going on there. But Neskaya was usually one of the most active Towers. She suppressed the urge to look more closely. Raineach could wait.

Again, she quartered the Overworld landscape, searching for the well-known avatar…. ‘Javanne?’ Javanne was not in the Overworld.

Slowly, she let the consciousness of the Overworld slide away, and focused again on the faint emanations from the figure on the bed. It would have to be explored, in depth and in great detail. Her questing thought probed, moved about it, considering, surveying, analyzing. Carefully, she went within herself to access a portion of her own subconscious, drawing it to the surface and matching its resonance to the insubstantial thread of Javanne’s consciousness. It was tricky, slippery. Just when she thought she had the match, was about to mesh, they would slide apart, as though some shifting energy intruded between. She tried again.

And again, and again. Unbelievable, that it could elude a Keeper! She paused, and gathered herself for another effort. But this time, instead of trying to match the faint echo of Javanne, she concentrated on that intruding, sliding energy, matching to it. And felt an explosion of pain and light in her head! A wrenching, tingling, repellent barrier of unbelievable power. Her unconscious gasp startled Carvala and Carylla, but they knew better than to speak or touch her. Carvala, to be sure, monitored Caitlyn, sensing the expenditure of energy, but focusing on her physical processes.

Caitlyn paused again, considering the surge that had resulted when she’d tried to match to the barrier energy. Perhaps… again she approached it, but this time, rather than attempting to match to it, she merely tried to sense it, feel along and around it. Perhaps, if she could get a sense of its shape, she could get a sense of its origins— where it was coming from. Painstakingly, she explored it, in minute increments. She found herself again reaching through the rapport for Carvala’s support, and wondered dreamily for a moment how long she’d been about the task, but the thought slipped away as she continued.

Finally, her eyes focused, and she turned to Carylla. With distant surprise, she noticed the presence of a tray of dishes on the table next to the bed. At least one meal had passed. She glanced, peripherally, at the Tower windows— darkness without. Some hours, then. She blinked, and refocused again on the Comyn Tower telepath.

“Carylla, how well do you know this Tower? Are there any spaces that are unused, closed off?”

Comyn Castle, Thendara

Camilla’s concern was almost tangible, Karen could feel its genuineness. Mind-to-mind, at this level, deception, evasion, manipulation were not possible. Camilla was sincerely, immediately, concerned for the consequences of the Lavenrunzian’s wish to continue normal activity.

“You must rest, Domna. Most of the time, threshold sickness is not serious, and passes as one learns the proper use and control of one’s laran. But if ignored, any case, even a mild one, can be more than serious—it can be fatal or worse, it can overload your mind, burn out your ability to use your mind at all. You have- well, I think you have, I am no leronis- very strong laran. It can be dangerous to you, and to those around you, unless you learn its proper control.”

“You must rest, and then you should go to a Tower. Any leronis will help you. They are oathbound to do so. Please, for your own sake and,” this was a shrewd shot, from what she had felt of the woman’s mind, it would be even more effective than an appeal to her own well-being, “for the sake of those around you, your people, you must rest, and get the help you need.”

Gently, she withdrew her own consciousness from the rapport, becoming aware once again of her visual surroundings, the Lavenrunzian woman’s pale, strained face, and the men in the room. She turned to the lady’s paxman, and made a gesture for ‘sleep,’ pillowing her head on hands set palm-to-palm, then nodded, and made way for him to approach the bed. She went to her guardsmen, and turned to watch.

OOC: I apologize for the confusion about Iolanthe, and I will edit when I can think how to best do it. For now, please ignore references to looking for her.
IC:

Outside Thendara

The sergeant bowed politely back, and wondered what to do. He decided to smile but not too much. It was not clear what these fellows wanted. After a moment he came up with an idea: he handed his rifle to one of the privates and beckoned to lead the men in. He said, "Franz, you grew up on a farm, right?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Well, go and take these fellows' horses and deal with them, nicely, understand?"
"Yes Sergeant!"
Franz, a short sturdy young man with straw yellow hair and blue eyes, went up and bowing a bit offered by gestures to take the reins, while the sergeant indicated as best he could that he would lead them into the camp.

Comyn Castle

Karen nearly wept. She whispered, "But I can't, I can't simply go to some...monastery? Temple? Tower...no, I have responsibilities, I cannot..." she began to weep in fact. She had never felt so helpless. Sergeant Kammler only saw that she was upset, and exclaimed, "Here, now, Lady, what are you doing to her?"

Camilla, understanding the paxman’s concern, nodded gravely, reassuringly, and gestured to the bed. He should talk to his Lady, she indicated. She suspected that if he understood the situation, his persuasion would be more potent than anything she could say, to help his Lady make the right decision.

Camilla, who considered herself fairly sophisticated (after all, she was the Lady of a great Domain, and had been to Court times uncounted, raised a family, and managed household and Domain for decades,) was nevertheless utterly unconscious of the political currents swirling among the Comyn, the Domains, and the Towers. It never occurred to her that any trained leronis, oathbound by centuries of tradition to help anyonelaran-gifted with their laran-related problems, might have any reason to hesitate in offering such assistance. She did not think of Domna Hockhenlow as an invader, a stranger, and it had not occurred to her—yet—that others might see it just that way.

(Lavenrunz, waiting for a response by TG from you on the other storyline.)

Aldaran’s Domain—Deep in the Hellers

Stavin MacBannal, semi-crouched with Piedro in fighting stance, had already halted in his tracks. Not because of whatever the bandit was shouting (since he couldn’t hear that, of course,) but to better meet any potential threat that might materialize from the man’s comrades.

Like that one! He caught the movement behind the gigantic metal bowl. Two more bandits, but only one of them armed. Stavin spared a lightning quick glance up to the rocky ridge, where the two bowmen were poised on watch. Corrin was still scanning for banshee-signs, but Leandro had his crossbow leveled, bolt aimed squarely for the armed man. He would not shoot, of course, but being without honor themselves, the bandits could hardly know that. Such scum did not understand honor at all.

Piedro was dividing his attention between Corrin and the wildly gesticulating bandit. Peripherally, he noted that all three of the bandits were (to say the least) bizarrely dressed, without any proper mountain gear like snowsoles, snow leggings, windscreens, or glare-proof eye covers. What were the fools doing up here, in an area that was subject to the most appalling storms, banshees, and snow/rock slides? True, it had been mild for some tendays, given that midsummer hovered on the horizon, but all too soon, the storms would return, storms that could literally pick up a man and hurl him over a precipice, dump six feet of snow in a bare couple of hours, and create deafening windscream and hellish vortices of snow, rock and wind that could scour a rockface into a scarred, twisted ruin, destroying trails and landmarks without trace.

Stavin gestured with his sword, his other hand pointing at the eagle badge on his fur-lined overjerkin, to show that he was Lord Aldaran’s man. Let the bandits know just where they were. Aldaran was Lord of these mountains, as other interlopers had learned to their cost. He gestured for the bandits to move, through the small cleft in the rock that led up to the ridge, out of the range of questing banshees.

Apparently the strangers were not utterly ignorant of the usages of courtesy, after all. Valentin and Danilo nodded politely to the servitor who took their horses, and Aric gave him a shy smile, as they turned to the man who had greeted them.

It appeared that he was prepared to bring them into the strangers’ encampment, perhaps to a leader. That was encouraging, and gave Valentin hopes that they might succeed; he’d rather doubted that for a few moments, there. All three of the young men politely restrained their burning curiosity as they followed the man, not craning their necks around, or gawping at the many odd sights that met them.

The Hellers

Lieutenant von Ihengen pointed very deliberately in response at the crowned leopard patch on his own sleeve. He was a bit relieved; obviously the man was indicating that he belonged to some kind of organization, and so he walked deliberately towards the group, keeping his hands in sight. He was at a loss as to how to seriously communicate, but these fellows seemed to be warriors of some kind. In a grim way, he felt that there would be some kind of universal language. What worried him was the significance of their being here now...surely they weren't laying claim to this barren patch of rock.

Comyn Castle, Thendara

Sergeant Kammler said quietly, "Captain...I think you need to rest now. I don't think these folk mean you any harm, and I will be no more than a few paces away. Whatever happens." his voice was quiet but firm.
This stiffened her a bit. She felt somehow that she could trust Kammler absolutely...and not merely because he was a sergeant in the Imperial Marines, though that meant much...but because he was Kammler, an absolute man of his word. She took a deep breath and said, "Very well, Sergeant. Thank you." she said, "Thank you, Excellency Camilla, and for all your patience and help. I will rest now..."

Outside Thendara

The shelters were only temporary modules, looking rather like metallic longhouses. There were about three of them, along with a communications vehicle that was all dishes and aerials, moving slowly on its treads to a better position. The aerodyne, faintly whining as its engines cooled down. A mess shelter that was being set up, its sides inflating automatically. Lieutenant Hochswender was indicating the preparations to Doctor Kotzebue, who was saying, "Yes, it's surprisingly cold even though we are in the lowlands here...ah! Visitors!" he beamed and walked towards them. A slender man with bits of grey in his fair hair and a short neat beard and moustache, he fairly breathed friendliness and enthusiasm. Hochswender by contrast was stocky, burly and clearly bore the gift he had been given in Aldaran, as well as his regulations greatcoat.

Aldaran’s Domain—Deep in the Hellers

Stavin frowned as the stranger approached. Weirdly dressed or not, he didn’t look like a bandit, and Stavin had patrolled many times and a-many for Lord Aldaran, especially in the high mountain areas, where bandits often had the mistaken notion that they could escape notice and hole up in safety. Was this man offering himself as hostage, to parley?

He had to associate the presence of these odd strangers with the vast wealth of metal spread around them. And suddenly, it occurred to him just how strange the presence of these metal objects was! There was no road, not even a chervine track, passable to this tiny plateau. Parts of the way required men to slither, single-file, along narrow ledges, with their backs to the rock and their toes overhanging the seemingly limitless void below. How had these objects come here?

Sorcery! That was the only answer. Therefore, these were less likely to be bandits, than paxmen of some comyn lord, perhaps. Or even… servants of one of the lowland Towers? He scrutinized the device the man was pointing to, on his garment. Some kind of beast? Stavin never claimed to know all the heraldry of the comi’i, but he knew the major devices, and the differencing of the principal septs, even among the lowland hali’imyn. This was none of them. Some clan he’d never encountered, perhaps?

He did not relax, but he did give Leandro a handsign, and the man lowered his bow, deflecting his aim from von Ihengen, though keeping it cocked and ready, watchful of the two remaining strangers. Stavin touched Piedro’s arm, getting the man’s attention, and gave him, too, a series of handsigns. With a gesture, he led the stranger toward the rock cleft, touching ear and mouth to indicate that they could talk, there.

They made their way carefully through the snow. By long instinct, Stavin knew by the appearance of the white blanket where good, rocky terrain was nearest the surface, and avoided the sudden sinks and drifts that could engulf a man up to the waist or higher, without warning. As he picked his way, he was thinking furiously.

He’d had his orders from Esteban, himself, in Caer Donn. By the time Stavin and his men had reached Caer Donn, the strange visitors to Aldaran had been gone some days, but the town had still been a-buzz with gossip about the Lord’s strange guests--some lowland Comyn no one in Caer Donn had ever heard of, with very strange sorcery, indeed. If these folk were among those guests, the Lord would not want them molested. On the other hand, nothing, nothing at all, had been said of any permission by Dom Gabriel for anyone to occupy the Rim Fangs area.

Not that it was very useful, at the best of times. These ridges were the last passable mountains before the Wall Around the World, ranges so high and close-ranged as to constitute an impenetrable barrier. Even here, the air was thin, another hundred meters up, there was no air. Stavin and his men, born and bred in the High Ridges, had the deep chest and hypertrophied lung development that allowed them to successfully breathe up here, but even those bred in the central ranges often got mountain-sick here. With the exception of a few passes that led to Hammerfell and some smaller estates, and a stock trail or two, the area wasn’t usable for much of anything but hunting. So why would these strangers bring their wealth to Rim Fangs, and especially without Lord Aldaran’s knowledge and permission?

With a grunt, he slithered through the cleft in the rock, and made way for the others. There was a flattish place, here, backed against an escarpment, with a narrow ridge leading back down to the main trail. As he made way for the stranger and Piedro, he shoved back his hood, unwrapped the windscarf from his head, and pulled the wadding from over his ears. Sharp, blue-gray eyes, set in skin brown and leathery from exposure to wind and glare, surrounded by a network of fine creases, surveyed the stranger.

With a nod, and a level look, he introduced himself. “I am Stavin MacBannal, of High Ridges. This is Piedro Larris, of Tevan’s Reach. This is Lord Aldaran’s Domain, and we are his men.” Unconsciously, he again touched the badge on his jerkin. “May I know, stranger, (he used the politely-inflected “chaireth”) your name and business here?”


Thendara—Comyn Castle

With relief, Camilla realized that Domna Hockhenlow was going to rest. She nodded to the paxman. She had been watching him as he had talked to his Lady. It was an opportunity to study him, and she decided she liked the way he looked: trustworthy, she thought. Like any decent woman, she’d avoided gazing at him when he was facing her, so she’d really not had a chance to assess him, before. He looked… disciplined, she thought. Yet sensible.

When Domna Hockhenlow murmured a few words, and lay back down, closing her eyes, the man turned toward Camilla, and she gave him a nod. Though she knew he could not understand her words, she said “Thank you, Mestru. Your Lady will sleep now, perhaps until the moons rise, and then waken hungry. I will leave orders for food to be brought then, and will return.”

As she finished, the door to the chamber banged open, and a loud, hectoring voice could be heard in mid-spate, “…care not if the Regent himself has requested her attendance, she is my wife and I will not have her shamelessly wasting time among some…”

The bang, not unnaturally, caused Karen to start, and moan, as a stab of pain flared behind her eyes.

Edric Ridenow stood in the doorway, looking around the room from under lowered, gray-shot brows, his coarse skin redder than usual with choler, the veins on his thick neck bulging. “Well, Lady? Well?” He focused on Camilla.

She turned toward him, her hand at her mouth in an involuntary gesture—it might have been to hush him, or it might have been anxiety. “Please, my husband, the Lady is ill and needs quiet. I will come with you immediately, and we may discuss this elsewhere.” A gesture to the two guardsmen and the maid who had accompanied her, and she glided quickly from the room, with an apologetic glance to the Lavenrunzians.

Those remaining behind could hear the echoes of the Ridenow Lord’s angry, carping voice diminishing, not in volume, but only as the distance increased.

“Shameless, Lady, shameless! To go among strange men, to leave your own husband and household unattended…”

Her own murmur, indifference blended with conscious soothing, was inaudible.

They reached the Ridenow suite, and the door closed behind them. Camilla turned to face Edric. “My husband, what lack of attention to your comfort has occurred?” With many years of experience at not providing further provocation, she sternly disciplined the temper that impelled her to add ‘Since that, or the opportunity to bait me, are the only reasons you ever bother to notice my presence or absence.’

Diverted, Edric remembered the initial cause of his annoyance at Camilla’s absence. “Aye, lack of attention, indeed, not to my comfort, Domna, but to the position of our House, in fact. You should have been here, when Lord Ardais, himself, came to visit, and to invite us to a moon-viewing this night, from the Ardais rampart. The Ardais to do us honor, and my wife not here to receive them? Lord Kyril’s assistance can do much for us this Council Season in settling that matter of the disputed estates in the Lorrilards, it would be well for you not to be backward in any attention, wife!”

Camilla’s face, schooled carefully over the decades to betray nothing of her feelings, showed only a becomingly meek concern. “Truly, my husband, you are right to be angry,” she said soothingly. “It is unforgivable to do such discourtesy to Lord Kyril, when he was so kind as to personally convey the invitation. I will visit Lady Jaelle, and apologize personally, and convey our thanks and acceptance of the invitation, as soon as I can change into more suitable garments.”

Edric stared at her narrowly for a moment, but there was nothing in her words to justify the feeling she always gave him—as though she regarded him with the same disdain she would show to an ill-behaved, poorly-taught child. It had driven him mad with frustration, once, decades ago, when he’d tried to break it down, tame what he saw as her stubborn, unwomanly pride. He’d never really succeeded, and for years there’d been no more between them than indifference that occasionally flared to dislike, but now and again she still managed to waken the tired old rage. But it wasn’t worth it. He grunted, mollified. “See that you do, then. And before you go, find out which of those thrice-bedamned servants managed to leave behind my second-best scabbard, and have the fool’s wage docked.”

So that was the rest of it! He’d forgotten, by now, that he himself had put aside the scabbard, saying it was too worn, and he’d purchase a new one in Thendara. She merely nodded. “I will see to it, husband.”

After a bath, she let Jerala dress her in the blue-green underdress, with the yellow spider-silk overskirt, that she’d worn to their formal call on the Regent. She didn’t much care for Jaelle Lanart-Syrtis, a young woman obsessed with intriguing to get her many relatives married off to powerful Comyn nobles, but she did pity her, a bit. It could not be easy, being married to Dom Kyril, whose preoccupation with attractive young Guardsmen and peasant boys was well-known. He’d managed to get an heir on Jaelle—twins, in fact, but no more children since, and she was almost past childbearing years. A woman as proud of her noble status as Jaelle had to feel the shame of being unable to bear more children for her clan.

So Camilla was deferential to Jaelle, and apologetic, and subtly flattering. Such attentions, from a Ridenow of Serrais, could not but soothe, and soon Jaelle was chattering happily about the moon-viewing that night, and the number of noble guests who would be hosted by the Ardais. Listening to her recite the guest list, Camilla was thoughtful. Auster Moray-Alton? Conn DiAsturien? Gareth Lanart-Alar? Leonie Castamir-Aillard? She didn’t share Edric’s optimism about Lord Ardais’ support in the matter of the disputed estates, not with so many minor Hastur clans and Alton connections apparently on good terms with the Ardais. Or were these some of the disaffected minor nobles Edric had been muttering about…?

Camilla had largely avoided the political intrigues rife among the great families of the Domains, partly because she rarely left Serrais other than for an occasional visit to Council, but also because she found such scheming uncongenial, to say the least. Nevertheless, for the first time it occurred to her that it might be well to at least understand some of the major currents.

As she changed for the moon-viewing, she wrestled with another problem: Domna Hockhenlow would be waking soon, and Camilla had done nothing to bring her needs to the attention of the Regent, or the leroni of Comyn Tower. She would need help, Camilla knew, in learning to manage her laran properly. Well, she would have to see the woman, determine how well she was recovering, anyway. That might help determine the best course for Domna Hockhenlow to get the help she’d require.

She glanced at the window. An hour, perhaps, before Mormallor and Liriel would break the horizon, though Idriel was already high in the sky. Kyrrdis would rise late, when Idriel was just touching the horizon. It was a bit early for a moon-viewing, but the next tendays would be crammed with parties and balls, official and unofficial, leading up to the great Midsummer Ball, and Jaelle had a better chance of attracting many guests now than if she waited until the moon transits were better aligned.

With a gesture to Jerala, and a couple of guardsmen, Camilla made her way back to the Hastur suite.

Domna Hockhenlow was awake, and eating heartily of the roasted meats, breads, cheeses, and herbed vegetable pies Camilla had ordered sent to her. She’d be ravenous, of course, after so much laran activity and such a long rest. Camilla smiled at her, as she entered, reaching for the slight, waking rapport that would let her communicate clearly.

“You are feeling stronger, Domna?”

The three youths, clad in summer tunics and light cloaks, were a bit bemused by the heavy clothing the strangers wore—heavy and, (to Darkovan eyes) ungraceful. They were more than curious, especially Valentin, about the amount of metal these strangers had about them. Shelters, carts, objects of unimaginable function, even mundane items like buttons!

Danilo remembered once, a long, late discussion over firian with Maran Castamir, the chief technician in Comyn Tower, speculating on how and why metals were so much less abundant today than in times past—though they had always been precious and scarce. Old scrolls in the Tower’s dustiest record bins wrote of matrix operations that could locate ores and lodes unimaginably deep under the ground, and bring them to the surface. But no Tower, these days, carried out such operations. Did these strangers, wherever they came from, have some sorcery like that? Or was the place from which they came simply inconceivably wealthy?

Valentin, observing the men who came to meet them, was struck by something incongruous. At first not realizing what it was, he focused suddenly on the cloak that the heavier man wore, embroidered velvet, lined with marl-fur, rich enough for a noble of the Comyn, but of an archaic cut and decoration not seen now outside the high hills, or, perhaps, even the mountains themselves. His attention riveted on the man now, he scrutinized him closely, without seeming to do so, and caught sight of a heavy, chased-copper bracelet on one of the man’s wrists—the design inset with what looked very much indeed like the Aldaran eagle device, though it was partly covered.

It would not do to stare, and he quickly turned his attention to the other man, who appeared to be welcoming them.

The three Darkovan youths bowed, very politely. Danilo and Aric both glanced at Valentin, and he gave a rather rueful half-smile as he attempted to communicate. Best to start with introductions, he thought. He laid a hand on his chest, briefly.

“Valentin Serrais-Elhalyn,” he said slowly and clearly, in cahuenga. It had been agreed that they would speak only the common dialect among the strangers.

Ever-sensitive to the nice distinctions of rank, he gestured next to Danilo: “Danilo Castamir.” And finally, to Aric: “Aric Kadarin.”

He paused, and looked politely enquiring, giving them an opportunity to return the courtesy.