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A number of stories in this anthology are related to Stormqueen. Some are “variations on a theme” and others arise more directly from the characters and situations described in the novel. One of the pleasures of short fiction is the opportunity to fill in the gaps and go “behind the scenes” as does the tale below. Here Leslie Fish brings together two elements of Darkover—the nonhuman chieri and their emmasca human descendents.
Leslie Fish learned to sing and to read at a very young age, playing guitar at sixteen, and writing the first of hundreds of songs shortly thereafter, including settings of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry and the “all-time most notorious” Star Trek filksong ever written: “Banned From Argo.” She’s recorded a number of albums and composed songs, both alone and collaborative, on albums from every major filk label. She was elected to the Filk Hall Of Fame as one of the first inductees. In college, she majored in English and minoring in psychology, protest and politics, joined the Industrial Workers of the World, and did psychology counseling for veterans. Her other jobs included railroad yard clerk, go-go dancer, and social worker. She currently lives in Arizona with her husband Rasty and a variable number of cats which she breeds for intelligence.
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Prince Felix Hastur had learned at an early age how to evade his bodyguards; he went into the castle garden at the edge of the woodlot, knelt down as if to study a flower, poked a finger into the little silk drawstring-bag at his throat to touch the blue stone therein, and pictured everyone’s eyes skipping over him, looking away from him, distracted to anything but himself. After that it took but a quick dash into the woodlot, and he was gone.
Beyond the woodlot lay the king’s hunting-forest proper, and Felix plunged into it. He ran uphill, toward the distant peaks, ran like a hunted stag, ran until fatigue made him slow and stop. No one from the castle was anywhere near; none could see him or report his weakness—more weakness, as expected, of the king’s emmasca son.
Called ‘son’ only for courtesy, he admitted again to himself.
And now the king’s only son, and heir to the throne—and obviously, being sexless and unable to breed heirs, unfit for it. The political nightmare didn’t bear thinking about, though every other noble in the Domains could think of nothing else.
No one bothered to consider that Felix had lost his beloved older brother.
Did no one imagine I could grieve?
Felix dropped to his knees beside a huge ancient featherleaf tree and threw his arms around it for support, digging his six-fingered hands into the bark, as the memories rose and flooded him. Laszlo...
Laszlo: big and bluff and almost always laughing, generous and sunny of disposition, who never did worse to his little brother and sister than tease—and that not cruelly.
Laszlo: patiently teaching his fearful little brother how to ride a stag-pony, carefully extricating his wailing little sister Ellora from a thornbush, gently bandaging a nervous hound’s injured leg, and singing lustily beside the fire to distract the castle servants from worrying about the raging blizzard outside.
Laszlo: brave to the edge of madness, whether fighting forest fires or marauding bandits, always assuming himself to be the shield between any danger and what he considered his people—which was almost everyone in the Domains.
Laszlo: who had been in particular the shield between his little brother and sister and the ruthless politics of the royal house.
Laszlo: whose courage and generosity had led him—no doubt shouting bravely to encourage the troops—to his death.
Laszlo: gone. A hole in the world where he once stood.
Felix clutched the tree and howled in hopeless pain. Birds took flight and small animals fled away, leaving Felix alone and unwitnessed, miserably free to pour out his sorrow to earth and sky. He dropped his mental shields and let it flow.
—Laszlo gone and I am no true man and a woman can’t inherit the crown so my father has no heir, and the landed lords are already scrambling for the position or allying with those who have the best claim which right now means Uncle Stephen Hastur and after him his son Damon-Rafael, and the one is cruelly ambitious and the other worse, and the gods know what they would do to Ellora and to me—far too much to hope that I’d be sent to a Tower and Ellora allowed to choose a husband she likes or allowed to wait until she’s full-grown before breeding—no, more likely I’ll be quietly killed and Ellora sold to some greedy lord at least twice her age who’ll force her to breed endless streams of children until she dies of it... And I can do nothing—nothing!—to prevent it because I am no true male and Laszlo is gone!
Despair poured through him in waves for what felt like hours, and ebbed away slowly for no other cause than exhaustion. Felix clung to the tree in stunned silence, dumbly wishing that this moment of safety could last forever.
Why not simply walk away into the forest? an oddly warm and hopeful thought intruded. Food is abundant if you know where to look, and shelter, and all the simple requirements of survival. You would be safe and free.
Felix idly considered the thought before casting it away. That would abandon my sister to utter loneliness, a wretched life and a miserable death. I can’t walk away until I find some means to protect her.
That warm and hopeful feeling shifted to thoughtful calculation, and then solidified to another thought, a question. If you could become fully male, would that solve the problem?
Well, of course! That was so obvious that he’d never thought to question it.
...So obvious that it couldn’t have been his own thought.
Felix lifted his head, turned, and saw without surprise that he was no longer alone.
The creature standing some three meters behind him was human-shaped, tall, slender, pale, silver-haired, with six fingers visible on each hand. It looked remarkably like himself, except for being ethereally beautiful in its sexlessness rather than frail.
A chieri, Felix marveled. He’d heard of them, of course, like most people, but had never seen one. Hardly anyone in several lifetimes ever claimed to have seen one. He felt awed. You’re very beautiful, was his first thought.
I thank you, the creature replied, likewise in thought.
Felix looked closer and was unsurprised to see a small blue stone pendant strung around the chieri’s slender neck, nestled in the soft cloth of its long mist-gray tunic. He got the distinct impression that the creature’s name was Irtlandess. Felix pulled himself to his feet and gave the chieri the formal greeting usually reserved for members of the royal family, ending with the standard phrase: “How may I serve you?”
Show me yourself, Irtlandess replied, a warm and gentle request.
Felix understood, and for once wasn’t frightened or ashamed. He knew this would be as painless, accepting, and even comforting as being monitored by old Lorna, back at Arilinn Tower. He had known so little of tenderness since leaving Arilinn....
For an instant a spike of yearning stabbed him. Oh, if only—
With a whispered oath, Felix deliberately dropped his mental shield and stood as if physically naked, holding back nothing. There was a polite pause, and then he felt Irtlandess’ awareness, feather-light, skimming over his desires, memories, body-sense, passions, all—condemning nothing, gentle as promised. ...Arilinn...flickered to the surface as the mist-light awareness withdrew.
Felix waited patiently, studying the lovely, near-mythical creature before him, calmed as he hadn’t been in days, his blazing grief and despair momentarily forgotten. For that respite he was profoundly grateful.
Irtlandess smiled, and spoke in words. “I can help you.”
I have stepped into a legend, a child’s cradle-tale, a dream, Felix thought. And why should I not, when the waking world is so bleak and hopeless? “How?” was all he asked.
The chieri’s next words could have been taken from a myth-tale, too. “Take me to your father’s house. Bring me within, as you would a maid you were secretly courting. Take me to your chamber, bring food and drink for both of us, and let me lie in your bed.”
“I will,” Felix promised, stretching forth a polite two fingers to lead his guest home.
~o0o~
All down the long walk back through the forest, through the barest touch of their fingertips, Felix could feel Irtlandess warmly calculating, planning—plotting, his father would have called it, except that there was no feeling of malice anywhere in it. The busy hum of the chieri’s thoughts was hopeful, joyful, almost playful. He felt a sudden surge of laran in those velvety fingers, and turned to see that Irtlandess had neatly constructed a covering illusion, a glamourie, of a pretty, pale-haired maid in plain clothes such as a simple farmer’s daughter might wear.
“Your secret barragana,” Irtlandess explained, almost gleefully. “A humble forester’s girl, of far too low a rank to consider for marriage, but good enough for breeding healthy nedestros. The sort a young prince would sneak in through the back door for an evening’s dalliance. You have some silver rings in your belt pouch, yes? Use one of them to bribe the silence of any guard who sees you.”
“That will guarantee the story spreads through the whole castle by dinnertime,” Felix noted.
“Precisely!” said the chieri, and giggled like the girl she seemed.
Felix caught the image—the prince sneaking a girl into the house—and giggled, too. It was, he realized, the first time he’d laughed in weeks.
Sure enough, guards were searching for him in the garden. Felix made an elaborate show of tip-toeing through the herbs and flowers, ducking down behind the bushes, tugging Irtlandess with him—and managed to keep a straight face while doing it. He knew old Cory had seen him and was waiting by the back door to the kitchen, but he managed to look surprised and guilty when the aged guardsman stepped into his path and demanded to know where he’d been.
“Just out walking,” Felix mumbled, doing his best to produce the illusion of a blush. He knew that the old guard was secretly snickering inside at the sight of the pretty girl half-hiding behind Felix’s cloak. “Ah, look, Cory...” Felix almost whispered, digging into his belt pouch, “It’s nothing important, nothing to rouse the guards about. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve seen us, right?” He looked about guiltily and stuffed a silver ring into the old man’s hand.
“Ah,” old Cory smiled knowingly as he stuffed the ring into his own pouch. “I understand perfectly. Get on with you, lad. ...And good luck.”
Felix was blushing in truth, but with the effort not to laugh, as he hurried past Cory and though the kitchen door, pulling Irtlandess after him. Once inside, he was briefly dismayed to see a clutch of scullery maids puttering about at the sinks. They stopped to stare as Felix and Irtlandess hurried through.
Ask one for food service, Irtlandess nudged.
Felix duly paused by the last maid, pressed another ring into her hand, and whispered into her ear—with the chieri guiding his words. “Bring some bread and cheese and fruit—oh, and a jug of berry wine and two goblets—up to my chamber. And don’t tell anyone!”
The maid snickered and nodded vigorously, and Felix and Irtlandess fled for the back stairs.
They made it as far as the door of Felix’s chamber before anyone else saw them, but the guard marching up the hallway caught sight of them and raised his eyebrows. Felix got the door open and hurried the two of them through before the guard could draw close enough to cost him another ring. With the door safely closed behind them, the two of them scampered to the bed and collapsed on it, smothering explosive laughter in the pillows.
Irtlandess recovered first. Don’t undress completely, she warned, and somewhat disconcertingly altered her glamourie to show her wearing a simple shift, with an image of her outer dress on the floor. Remember, the maid will come soon with the food.
Felix caught the image of what the scullery maid was supposed to see, and quickly pulled off his cloak, boots and tunic. He reached for the chieri’s hand again. The tale will be all over the castle in an hour, he thought. How long can we maintain the illusion?
Irtlandess’s fingers tightened briefly on his. It shall not be an illusion long, she promised.
Behind that flickered the wordless image: himself, as a man. Felix trembled at the thought. At that moment a knocking sounded on the door. Felix hurried to the door, pulled it open just far enough for him to reach for the laden tray—saying quickly, “Thankyouthatwillbeall”—and to give the ogling maid a good view of the room. To complete the effect, he trotted the tray to his bedside table, turned back to the door, and frowned as he repeated, “Thankyouthatwillbeall,” before closing the portal with a decisive slam. Finally he put up the bar, making certain that the sound of it settling in its brackets was audible outside.
Now that they were alone, Irtlandess dropped the glamourie and resumed her natural form. Felix sat down on the bed beside her. “Well played,” he sighed. “Within the hour, the word will be all over the castle that Prince Felix is not so emmasca as everyone had thought.”
Irtlandess pointed toward the tray. Felix took up the flask and one of the goblets. Irtlandess silently reached for her belt pouch and pulled out a small glass flask that contained a pale-gold liquid. Among my own kindred, she explained, as she unstoppered the flask, I am somewhat famed as a healer.
Wordlessly, Felix held up the goblet. Irtlandess poured perhaps a finger’s width of the gold liquid into it. A scent wafted up from the liquid, subtle but piercing.
For an instant a hundred apprehensions galloped through his mind, the uppermost being that this might be a cleverly plotted poisoning, clearing his ambitious uncle’s way to the throne....
Ridiculous! He had seen Irtlandess’s mind, and knew better. Besides, if Uncle Stephen wanted him dead right now there were far simpler ways to do it than by suborning a chieri.
Felix raised the goblet in salute and slowly drained it. The flavor of the wine was unchanged, but a ghost of the scent still lingered. “How long?” he asked, carefully setting the goblet back on the tray.
“At least a day and a night,” said Irtlandess, as she put the flask back in her belt pouch, “Possibly two. You should begin to feel the effects within a few moments.”
By the time he’d pulled away his breechclout, Felix’s fingers felt numb. He lay back on the pillows and turned to look at Irtlandess while he could still move his head. Naked, she was almost sexless, slender, but ethereally lovely. His own body felt as if it were turning to mist, though it still looked solid. ...Tell me... he implored, not quite clear about what he wanted to know.
Irtlandess rested a nearly weightless hand on his bare shoulder, defining the welcome limits of his skin. Surely you encountered kirian during your training at Arilinn? she asked.
Felix recalled a few drops being poured carefully into a spoon. Only that, only once, he managed to form the thought. Lorna said I had laran enough without stimulation... He remembered those few drops spreading his mind open to Lorna’s probe, and almost passionlessly wondered what ten times that amount would do.
Irtlandess stroked his chest, making the skin feel as if it were thick velvet, and he could feel her awareness spreading out, searching the castle.
The scullery maids, the guards, are gossiping together, she reported. The maids speculate that you have finally found a maid who stirs you, and they wonder if you were struck by true love. The guards rejoice that the King has an heir again. The eldest—Cory —sternly warns them all to keep silent until they know more. All of them are determined to keep you from being interrupted. Even the house laranzu knows nothing yet. We shall have at least our day and a night....
Reassured, Felix let himself sink into soft brightness, bewildering sweet strangeness of touch, and the steady awareness of Irtlandess’s presence. Wordlessly he asked to see this mystery explained.
Long ago, Irtlandess complied, stroking onward, we made a great error. We toyed too much with living things. We...bred ourselves too much for power, too little for sturdiness.... We made our blood too thin and weakened our...breeding. We lived long, but our numbers dwindled. In desperation, we searched the overworld for any like us, any close enough in...flesh that we could breed with them. We sensed a...ship full of them, near enough that we could pull it to us, bring it to land... We used various...tricks to interbreed with the shipwrecked passengers. The children that we kept did indeed reinvigorate our bloodlines; there are enough of us now that we may well survive.
Through the softly burning mist, Felix managed to form a thought, a question. If increasing, why are chieri so rarely seen?
Ah, but the answer to that was so obvious that it followed instantly. Any creature that could form an illusion could walk unseen and unheard through even a crowded marketplace, let alone forest and farmland. Chieri simply didn’t wish to be noticed.
Irtlandess gave him another long, feather-light stroke that dissipated thought, and went on with the mind-touch tale.
The children that we left among the newcomers, and their descendants, had many of our...characteristics: six fingers, the mind-gifts, and...some difficulty becoming fertile. The degree of these varies with the...amount of chieri blood. Though we try to avoid human attention, we prefer not to abandon those descendants of ours who are...most like us. That is why you are here, Felix—and why I am here also.
Felix understood, inasmuch as he could think at all. His body turned to glowing mist, like the strange waters of the Lake of Hali, and only the steady flowing touch of Irtlandess’s fingers gave him definition, sketching lines of soft blue fire that pulsed sweetly in long, hot trails. Time vanished, and awareness followed.
At one point Felix drifted close to consciousness, fierce with hunger. Hands—Irtlandess—held out food to him, and he took it and ate, scarcely aware of chewing and swallowing, until the hunger eased and he sank back into the burning mist. At another point he was roused to awareness of noise nearby and opened his eyes to see a pretty blonde girl in a plain shift—Irtlandess—standing at the chamber door exchanging an empty bowl and flask for full ones. Once more there came hunger and thirst, eating and drinking, and hot drifting again for measureless time.
Eventually the bright mist sank away, leaving Felix solid and aware of time and place. He opened his eyes to see candlelight, darkened windows, and Irtlandess lying beside him. She looked more distinctly female now, and very beautiful. A nameless feeling drew his body toward her, like iron filings to a lodestone, pulsing through him and centering... Ah, there!
Felix raised his head and looked down, and saw that—oh yes, definitely—he was a complete male now: distinctly, and actively male. He stared for long moments, fascinated, connecting the undeniable sight to the insistent feeling.
Yes, Irtlandess spread the image before him. Now make proper use of it.
Felix rolled toward her. The shock of contact was enough to drown him in a different brightness, one that left him with feeling and awareness but obliterated all else.
~o0o~
When Felix came back to himself again, he wanted nothing but to lie quietly and marvel over this new knowledge. Irtlandess stroked his back idly, and he could tell that her awareness was elsewhere, scanning the castle and all the minds in it. You’re my guard, too, he smiled, feeling a first flicker of soft heat rising. How long has it been?
A night and a day, and early into another night, she informed him. A wisp of grimness floated across the near surface of her mind. Human politics proceed apace. You shall have to deal with them shortly.
Not now, Felix groaned mentally.
I fear so. Irtlandess combed her fingers through his hair and spread a clear image before his mind: the scene below, the situation, and what he must do to change it.
“Zandru’s hells!” Felix snapped aloud, appalled and quailing inwardly. Gods, I can’t do this I’ve always been such a coward I can’t....
Here is your one chance to save yourself, and your sister. Irtlandess showed him another image: Ellora hiding in her chamber, crouched in the furthest corner, weeping in hopeless terror.
Felix rolled over and sat up, briefly distracted by the unaccustomed weight of his manhood. This once, I will be brave—and a man.
He stood up, found that the cold of the stone floor burned his feet, and paused to pull on his fleece-lined boots. An instant’s thought sent him to the clothes-hooks on the wall, from which he took down his light cloak. He wouldn’t need anything else; he wouldn’t be gone long. The rough cloth rubbed irritatingly on his swollen flesh.
I’ll await you here, Irtlandess promised, not needing to add that she would monitor his progress.
Felix tossed her an unnecessary salute, and unbarred the door. The sound of scampering feet told him what to expect; when he opened the door, the maids were partway down the hall, trying to look as if they had business there and trying not to be noticed staring at him. Gossiping merrily, he thought—and then realized that the thought wasn’t entirely his own. Irtlandess was keeping mental contact with him, at the same time scanning his path ahead and feeding her knowledge back to him. Felix stood up straight, pulled back his shoulders and—like the warrior Laszlo had been—marched down the corridor.
The guard at the head of the stairs saw him coming, said no word, but raised his pike in salute. Bravo, Prince, the man was thinking, giving him a knowing smile. Felix returned it and marched on. At the bottom of the stairs the chief housekeeper was scolding one of the maids, and they both paused as they saw Felix coming down the steps. The housekeeper frowned, intending to confront Felix, trying to choose just what question to ask.
Felix felt a brief flash of irritation from Irtlandess and then her thought shaping the muscles of his face into an impatient scowl, then a dart of fear stabbing the housekeeper so that she drew back without a word and let him pass.
You forced her! You overshadowed me.... Felix didn’t break stride, but he felt a shiver of horror at what Irtlandess had just done. There was a flash of embarrassment and apology, and the wordless explanation that this coming scene must be played perfectly, for all their sakes.
Felix marched across the main hall, into the side corridor, to the guard-flanked door of his father’s office, wondering, Do the chieri keep apart from men for their safety, or for ours?
Both, came the wordless reply.
And then he came up to the office door, and there was no more time to speculate. The guards formally crossed their pikes before the door, the polite signal that the king wished not to be disturbed. Felix pulled up to his full height and pronounced, as firmly as his voice would allow, the words he already knew he would have to say. “I must see my father. The matter is urgent.”
The guards raised their eyebrows, glanced quickly at each other, pulled away their pikes, and let Felix push open the door.
He took two steps into the chamber and almost halted, almost failed. It was bad enough knowing that his uncle Stephen and cousin Damon-Rafael were there, but actually seeing them—needing no laran to know their determined malice and his father’s ill-hidden despair—was almost enough to break him. Almost. Felix kept marching, almost to the paper-littered table where the three of them sat, before he halted, swept them all with a stern glance, and then fixed upon the carefully expressionless face of his father and king.
“Father, forgive the intrusion, but I will be brief. Is it true that you have prayed to all the gods in the calendar—” ...since Laszlo died... “—for some sign that I am, at last, fully your son?”
He let the stressed word hang in the air, in all its meaning, until his father simply whispered: “You know I have.”
“Then behold it!”
Felix gripped the edges of his cloak and spread his arms wide, letting the cloth flap like wings, revealing his bare body from head to boot-tops, and thereby displaying his undeniable and rampant manhood.
And oh, the looks on their three faces—and the blazing emotions behind them, which Irtlandess gleefully reported: his father’s amazed delight and renewed hope, Stephen’s stunned dismay and scrambling amid shattered plans, Damon-Rafael’s shock and... Good gods, envy! Felix could hear Irtlandess laughing like merry bells ringing in his skull.
To his own amazement, Felix recovered first of all of them. He lowered his arms and drew his cloak together, putting a decisive end to the show. With a calmness that surprised himself, Felix continued: “Therefore, you may now start seeking a suitable bride for me. Meanwhile, I ask your leave to withdraw...” He couldn’t help adding, “...and return to my barragana, and hopefully begin begetting a long string of nedestros.”
For the first time in his life, Felix heard his father snicker.
“Oh yes, yes,” snorted the Hastur King, giving an exaggerated dismissive wave. “By all means, depart on that errand.” His eyes were no longer on his son, but raking over his brother and nephew.
As Felix bowed and backed toward the doorway, he heard his father say, “Well, that does put rather a different face on the situation, doesn’t it?”
He also felt Damon-Rafael stab him with a look of miserable hatred.
Felix stood and turned to go—and then realized that the guards had left the door open. Well, of course, he thought inanely, they had to make sure that my presence was welcome, or at least harmless.... And that meant that the guards, and the chief housekeeper, and the maid, and perhaps half-a-dozen other servants who seemed to have materialized from nowhere, had all witnessed that scene. Far too many to silence, Irtlandess smiled warmly in his mind. Your new standing is assured.
Felix struggled to keep his face stern and unblushing all the way back down the corridor, across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the upstairs hallway to his own room. There seemed to be a remarkable number of guards and servants saluting and bowing to him. He wondered how the news had spread so quickly.
Servants’ quarters, Irtlandess giggled silently. For folk lacking mind-powers, the lower castes have remarkably efficient communications....
Felix pulled the door open, passed through, and barred it behind him. The exhilaration of victory was rising fiercely, and his almost painful desire with it. He hastened to the bed, casting off his cloak on the floor behind him, paused only to pull off his fleece-lined boots, and tugged the blankets down.
Irtlandess lay there waiting for him—if anything, more vividly female than before—her welcoming smile, bare arms, and delighted mind all open to him. Victory, my prince! Come claim it.
Felix fell into the welcoming flames with a shout of triumph.
~o0o~
This time Felix awakened with a feeling of simple hunger and honest physical fatigue. Irtlandess, sitting up against the carved headboard, only smiled distantly and pointed toward the bed-table.A refilled flask and bowl waited there. Felix addressed himself to both for several long minutes. As his hunger eased, another need asserted itself and he reached under the bed for the chamber-pot. He noted with amusement that he wasn’t used to dealing with such functions in his changed body. Irtlandess chuckled and offered suggestions.
Afterward, Felix closed the pot, shoved it back under the bed, and studied his new form. “Will I keep it?” he asked softly, “Or will I...revert?”
Irtlandess thought awhile before answering. “You will keep this form until, and unless, you choose to change it—and that will require...”
“I have no intention of changing it,” Felix cut in hastily, climbing back into the bed. “I’ve waited long enough to become truly male, and the political advantages...” He thought of Ellora.
Irtlandess caught the image, and frowned. “Human politics are not my art or skill,” she murmured. “Our own are complex enough. I have given you what advantage I can; it is you who must make further use of it.”
Felix noticed for the first time that she hadn’t spoken mind-to-mind to him since he woke. “Surely you can scan the minds around me, give me warning...”
“I must leave very soon.”
“Leave?!” Felix clutched her arm, appalled. How will I live without you?!
Ah, have you come to love me, so soon? she asked.
My first lover, how could I not? he answered. Please don’t leave me!
“I must,” she said in words, gently pulling out of his grasp. “Already questions are flying, about the simple country maid who wakened the prince’s manhood. I believe the castle bard is creating a ballad, and the castle laranzu is arguing with the healer. I have drawn too much attention. Need I explain further?”
“The illusion...”
“I cannot maintain it constantly, and too much scrutiny would reveal the truth.”
“You could slip away into the forest, and I could meet you there....” Felix realized that even this much separation would deprive him of Irtlandess’s constant watching and guidance. He would have to fend with the kingdom’s politics himself. And I have no idea how to do it, he admitted, shivering.
And did you learn nothing at Arilinn Tower?
With a jolt Felix realized that except for his little escape-illusions, he hadn’t so much as touched his starstone since returning from Arilinn. He’d kept himself shielded, afraid to touch the minds around him, knowing what pain he’d meet with his father’s disappointment, his sister’s misery, the unloving thoughts and emotions of everyone else....
But all that was changed now.
“I have given you your chance,” Irtlandess whispered.
I am a man now, Felix understood, and there is more to manhood than just breeding-organs...
“Yes. Be brave.”
Felix sat up, opened the little bag of insulating cloth that hung at his neck, and tipped out his matrix into his naked palm. The polished stone, as big around as his thumb, twinkled vivid blue in the candlelight, warm and welcoming, igniting memories of Arilinn Tower—the one place in the world where he had been accepted, even welcomed. It took no effort to recall old Lorna’s lessons and how eager he had been to learn. More vivid still were the memories of working in the circle, joining minds willingly, plying his skill among the glowing presences of his friends’ minds, being honored for himself and not his bloodlines, of having useful work, being of use....
Oh, Arilinn! Arilinn Tower, that I shall never see again... The spike of his sorrow was as fierce as his grief for his lost brother.
Is that’s your heart’s wish? Irtlandess asked.
Oh gods, yes! Felix clutched his matrix until it seemed to burn like a blue coal in his hand. I’d go there this very night, if I could.... But I must save Ellora and be my father’s heir.
Then use your stone, and see what you must do.
Felix quailed at the thought, then caught himself. While Laszlo was alive, his little brother and sister had sheltered under his wing, and never learned to be brave. But this was something that Laszlo could never have done. This was Felix’s skill, and he must use it now.
Courage, Irtlandess whispered in his mind.
Felix took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and applied his training. First the deliberate calmness, then the opening, then the reaching...
It was surprisingly easy for a skill he’d carefully not practiced all these many long days, especially among these untrained and unshielded minds. He grew aware of the guard in the upstairs hall, peered closer, and saw the fellow automatically watching the corridor while chuckling to himself about how the prince’s new status would improve life in the castle—and then deliberately backing up under a glass-cased torch to let fly an almost-silent fart. Felix laughed and moved on.
Father...
The Hastur King was in his massive bed, but not asleep. He sat propped up against a mound of pillows, jotting notes—names of eligible noblewomen and their connections. Felix sighed, knowing he had asked for exactly that.... Oh, but there was worse; his father was making a parallel list of eligible noble sons and their connections, and possible alliances among them. Felix shuddered at some of the names, knowing what Ellora thought of them.Not even his father would let Ellora wed where she chose, or live as she chose. Saddened, Felix moved on.
...To Ellora’s room. The princess was not asleep, either. She was huddled in her bed, under the light of a single hooded lamp, whispering intensely with... Zandru’s hells, was that one of the maids? Yes, it was one of the waiting maids, named Linella, close to Ellora’s age and her secret confidant. They were discussing Felix’s dramatic revelation, and how that would change royal politics.
“—been considering husbands for me,” Ellora was saying, “And now he’ll be doing it for Felix. The best I can hope for is to persuade Felix to complain about any suitors that I absolutely can’t stand. Even so, I don’t know if that will sway Father. You’ve seen how stubborn he is.”
Felix grimaced in sympathy.
“Oh, please!” Linella burst into tears and flung her arms around Ellora’s neck. “There must be another way! We’ll run away together, and join the Sisterhood of the Sword.”
“I’ve never used a sword in my life, and neither have you.”
“The Ladies of Avarra, then. We’ll become healers—”
“Father pulled Felix out of Arilinn Tower, where he was bidding fair to become a great Keeper. The king can command me out of even the House of Avarra.”
“Then the Sisterhood it must be. We’ll find a way—”
Sadly Felix pulled his mind away and moved on. He knew full well that his father would never let Ellora have her choice of husband, nor was he likely to allow her to keep her favorite maid when she was married off. The nearest outpost of the Sisterhood of the Sword was many long mountainous miles away, and Ellora’s chance of reaching it was nearly nil. No, there would have to be another way....
If only I could take her to Arilinn with me...
Hopeless. If Father couldn’t spare him from the burden of the crown—and the duty of breeding more heirs—he wouldn’t spare Ellora, with her much weaker psychic gift. She was too useful a pawn in the game of kingship.
I’ll have to do it.
With that thought in mind, Felix resolutely moved on toward the bedchanbers of his uncle and cousin.
Go ahead, grasp the blade. Felix gritted his teeth and focused on Damon-Rafael.
His target wasn’t hard to find. Damon-Rafael was in bed, slaking his rage by rutting with one of the older chambermaids. The woman was smiling, cooing encouragement, gasping at what a splendid stallion Damon-Rafael was—and it was all lies. The castle staff all knew about Damon-Rafael and his tastes. After a brief, tense discussion, this particular maid had volunteered for the task, simply because—having been an army camp-follower and a whore in very truth—she could endure Damon-Rafael better than the younger maids. She had prepared herself beforehand with internal shields and ointments. Now she was cynically measuring the duration of his strokes, trying to guess when he’d finally finish, giving judicious squeezes and lunges of her own to hurry him along.
Damon-Rafael was stabbing angrily, his attention alternating between his own sensations and imagined images of himself as a spear, plunging into Felix—that upstart! How dare he?!—at various unspeakable target points. He hadn’t given up his hopes of the kingship. It would only be more difficult and complicated now to get Felix out of the way. With each thrust he sorted through various assassination plans, the bloodier the better.
Felix withdrew, shaken. It was almost a relief to move on to the cold and calculating mind of his Uncle Stephen.
Stephen Hastur sat awake in bed making notes, like his brother, and including some of the same names in his jottings. His plans were many-layered, including assassination of Felix if a clear opportunity occurred, but that too was considered as coolly as a formula in mathematics. Far more likely was the possibility of marrying Ellora off to a staunch ally, subtly nudging his brother to marry Felix to some weakling girl, waiting until the King died and then eliminating Felix and any of his male children. That would be a long and subtle game, but Stephen could wait. The difficulty would be reining in his impatient son until the moment was right....
Felix withdrew, contemplating his still-bleak future. Aside from plotting murder himself—and after scanning Damon-Rafael, that was not too repugnant an idea—he could see no escape. Ellora’s mad plan of running away looked more enticing by the moment.
This is another reason why we prefer to keep aloof from humans and their politics, Irtlandess chuckled close by. Yet I know enough of them to see a pathway through this thicket.
Felix looked up to meet the chieri’s eyes, noting that she was fully dressed and shod for travelling. “Then in Aldones’ name, Irtlandess, I beg you tell me!”
Irtlandess pulled her feet up under her. What does everyone want? Your father wants the continuation of his bloodline and rule. You and Ellora—and her breda—want to escape, preferably to Arilinn. Stephen Hastur wants to rule, and his son after him. Look at this as a pattern, as a complex weaving of threads, and see the way for everyone to have what they...think they wish.
Yes, he could see it—the weak point where the threads crossed, where the pattern could be changed. Oh yes, it included some deception, but there were worse sins. It would also involve a technical problem; if Stephen saw Felix holding his starstone, he’d close his mind and agree to nothing.
For that I will assist you, this last time, Irtlandess promised. Leave your starstone in its pouch; I will walk beside you, unseen, and transmit my perceptions to you as I did before. With that, she gave off a surge of laran and disappeared before his eyes.
Brilliant illusion, Felix admitted, though he smiled as he noted the wrinkles in the bedcover as Irtlandess slipped to the floor. With a sigh, he reached for his clothes, including his belt and then his sword. Will I ever see you again?
Indeed you will, the silent voice answered out of the empty air. Surely you will see me when you and your sister come to Arilinn.
All the more reason for me to succeed.
~o0o~
Lord Stephen Hastur was studying his notes when he heard a peremptory rapping on the door. With the speed of long practice, he flipped his notes over and scribbled a harmless salutation to his estate manager on the blank side.. “Who is it, at this ungodly hour?”
“Felix,” said the unexpected voice at the door.
Felix?! Stephen set his writing-tray aside, pushing the notes even further out of view, and cast a quick glance at where his sword hung nearby on the wall. Showing no sign of his bewilderment, he slid out of bed, padded to the door, unbarred and opened it a slight way. Yes, there stood Felix, fully dressed right down to his boots, cloak, belt—and scabbarded sword. The boy seemed taller than he had yesterday, or perhaps that was the effect of his standing up straight. “It’s very late,” Stephen temporized, torn between caution and curiosity.
“Nonetheless, I would speak to you—for our mutual satisfaction.”
The boy sounded older, too. How had he matured so quickly?
“Come in, then.” Stephen pulled the door wide and stepped back, giving the guard a clear view, not taking his own eyes off Felix. He backed carefully to the small writing-table, where the usual flask and goblets waited, and sat in the further chair.
Felix waited for a long moment in the open doorway before coming in, closing the door behind him but not barring it, and pacing to the nearer chair. He glanced at the flask, but didn’t touch it. Stephen barely noticed a last puff of wind briefly flicking the lamp.
“It’s late,” said Felix, “so I’ll not detain you with trivialities. Uncle, tell me flat out: do you truly want to be King?”
Stephen blinked, jarred by the blunt—and surprisingly refreshing—honesty. “Well, who would not?” he smiled.
“Me,” Felix replied, his eyes boring into his uncle’s. “I would not.”
Stephen blinked again. “Might I ask why?” he asked.
“First...” Felix ticked off on his six spread fingers, “Because I’m not fit for it. I was never trained in kingly craft, have never learned warcraft, and never commanded anything larger than a small hunting party. I would make a terribly incompetent ruler.”
Stephen blinked several times, rapidly. “That is...a most remarkably mature evaluation,” he murmured.
“Further,” Felix went on, tapping another finger, “I learned at Arilinn that I would make a very good Tower technician, possibly even Keeper. That is, in fact, what I want to do with my life. I can serve the realm—and myself—far better as a good laranzu than a bad king.”
“You prefer life in a Tower to life in a castle?” Stephen asked, on surer ground now.
“I do indeed.” Felix leaned closer. “I also have no liking for the prospective brides my father is considering for me. Frankly, I prefer barraganas of my own choice.”
Stephen gave a bark of laughter, understanding that perfectly.
“And so,” Felix added slowly, “would my sister.”
Stephen shut his mouth, seeing another possible advantage here.
“We all know what my father would prefer,” said Felix, boring in closer, “but now I have some word in my own fate. I will persuade him to let me go back to Arilinn, and I will find some fault with every bride he proposes for me. With any luck...” For a moment he looked distracted, then somber. “I may play this game until my father’s natural death shall overtake him. Upon gaining the throne, I will abdicate in your favor. Will that satisfy you, Uncle?”
Stephen sat frozen for long seconds, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. This was so absolutely perfect, he couldn’t trust it. There had to be a hidden barb in it somewhere. “Is that all you wish?” he asked slowly.
“There is one other thing.”
Stephen tensed, ready for anything. “What is that?”
“Ellora shall come with me.”
“What?” It was the last thing Stephen could have expected.
“This I insist on.” Felix leaned closer. “You shall not—and you will help me make certain that Father shall not—marry her off to the first lordling who offers a shred of political advantage. My sister does in fact have a Gift for healing, which could be trained at Arilinn.” He leaned back again. “I am more concerned with breeding for the Gifts than breeding for crowns. Do you understand me, Uncle?”
“I do indeed.” Stephen was sure he did. “And...the Tower leroni have a better understanding of breeding for Gifts than we mere politicians, eh?”
“Just so,” Felix said shortly.
Stephen sat back, seeing how he could further this marvelous opportunity that had been dropped in his lap. “And no doubt, you want me to use my influence with my brother to nudge him, whenever possible, toward giving you your desire?”
“Just so,” Felix said again. “In exchange for your assistance, I will hand you the crown the day it is on my head, if not sooner. Do we have an agreement?”
“We do!” Stephen pounced, then caught himself. “Ah, don’t wait for your coronation. Renounce the crown the very hour you hear of the king’s death.”
“In a Tower, I may learn of it before you.” Felix narrowed his eyes. “And in a Tower, be assured, I will know if my father’s death is natural or not.”
“So be it.” Stephen smiled at Felix in genuine respect. “I will bend all my efforts to sending you to Arilinn....” He paused just long enough to hint at the physical distance to Arilinn, quite far enough to keep the Prince out of politics in the capital. “But, since we are being blunt, how do I know you will keep your word?”
“You will know,” Felix retorted coolly, “by the way I avoid political marriages for myself and Ellora. I’ll expect your assistance on that, too.”
Stephen Hastur examined the bargain from every angle he could think of, and could find no fault in it. Felix was deliberately taking himself out of the succession, and his sister’s children, too. There were ways Stephen hadn’t mentioned to ensure such a bargain, but he felt oddly certain that they wouldn’t be needed. Felix’s argument rang with sincerity. Stephen stretched out his hand. “Agreed,” he said. “Do you wish me to swear blood-oath before Aldones?”
“Your word is enough.” Felix smiled and took his hand in the formal clasp. “And now, the hour being late as you said, I’ll retire to plot my own persuasions with Father.”
“By all means,” said Stephen, releasing his hand. “And I’ll plan mine, gladly.”
Felix left without another word. He paused a brief moment by the open door, letting in a puff of wind, then went out.
Barely restraining a whoop of delight, Stephen seized up his notepapers and happily threw them into the fire.
~o0o~
Now to the kitchen, Irtlandess guided Felix invisibly down the stairs. Then you need only open the back door, and I’ll away.
Must it be so soon? Felix mourned. I couldn’t have done that without you; my courage, and surely my knowledge, would have failed.
For answer, Irtlandess gave him a graphic image of how to obtain a proper-sized setting and affix his starstone in such a fashion that the bare stone would touch his skin under his shirt. He would not have to hold it visibly to use it.
You have the courage now to do your own scanning, she told him. Your own courage upheld you in settling with your uncle.
Felix thought over that conversation as he made his way down the night-darkened hall. Irtlandess, will my father truly live long?
He will. His...flesh and blood are balanced and strong, and your house laranzu and chief of guards are most adept at preventing external threats. Your uncle, on the other hand, has a weakness of the blood-vessels that guarantees him a shorter life. His reign will be competent, but not long.
Felix considered his next question as they picked their way through the kitchen. And will Damon-Rafael follow him? What manner of rule will that be?
Irtlandess paused, with a distinct feel of calculation, before answering. Having to wait long for power will not improve his impatient temper. His reign will be much less competent, and shorter. In brief, someone will kill him.
Felix paused with his hand on the garden door. Do you...remember the future, as humans remember the past?
No, not like that, he felt Irtlandess chuckle. It is more that we see patterns—in nature, and in human nature—which indicate which events will come, and what choices will be made. It is like knowing the cycles of the moons so as to predict conjunctions. This is a skill you can learn.
Felix pulled back the bar as soundlessly as he could. And Ellora? he asked. Does she truly have enough laran that the Tower will want her?
Her empathic talent and minimal telekinesis can indeed be trained to a useful healer’s talent. It will take time, and that will be your excuse to your father.
The night sky was remarkably clear, and the stars and moons shone brilliantly. It was a lovely night for parting, for saying farewells.
“Oh, why must you go?” Felix wailed softly, knowing he was acting like a child.
“Because I must go back to my own people to prepare for the birth,” whispered the soft voice in his ear. “We have both gained from this encounter, my prince. I am pregnant.”
“What?!”
True, Irtlandess assured him, even as he felt the slight breeze of her passing. No doubt you will see your child at Arilinn.
With that, she was gone. Even the sense of presence in his mind faded quickly, leaving him truly alone. Without thinking, he reached for his starstone.
—Not yet— came a last sharp warning.
Felix sighed and pulled away his hand from the little drawstring bag. Yes, he must let the chieri escape with no one—even himself—knowing where she had gone or how to find her. There was a strange, delicate balance between humans and these ancient people, and he must do nothing to upset it.
For if upset, that balance might be in our favor, he realized with a sudden chill. The chieri had immense mental powers—enough to pull a ship off course, he remembered—enough to pass unseen or disguised through a crowd, enough to simultaneously scan and transmit and even force the thoughts of humans, enough to change the bodies of humans into something they could use....
Nothing but the good will of the chieri keeps humans alive on Darkover! If they willed, they could kill us all—except the few they keep for breeding.... Instead they quietly bought the use of our blood and paid us with settlement on...
Now that he thought of it, if the world were indeed a globe as the scholars claimed, then humans occupied less than a quarter of it: only one continent, from the Hellers to the Dry Towns. Most of it was forest, the rest desert and snow-peaks, with precious little farmland. Without the help of the Towers, there would be little if any mining for metals. Simple survival was a constant struggle, leaving no resources to spare for exploration. Humans had simply never looked—or never thought to look!—beyond the seas, or the Dry Towns.
For that matter, they had never expanded their knowledge, their skills, beyond the uses of laran. There were ancient books preserved at Arilinn which spoke of mysterious technology which humans had once possessed, and was now lost. Why had it never been regained? Why had humans, for the last several centuries, specialized in developing only laran sciences—the chieri’s arts—and nothing else?
Are all our lands their game preserve? Felix wondered, staring up at the vast dark sky. Are we their pets or livestock?
The sky gave no answer, but he remembered the mental contact with Irtlandess. It had all been kindly, gentle...benign. Then he thought of the contrast with Damon-Rafael’s mind, or even Uncle Stephen’s.
How desperate must the chieri have been, to blend their bloodlines with creatures as savage as we?
And yet they had paid well, with a whole continent to live on. If the chieri had limited humans’ learning in certain directions, they had let it run free in all others. They had left the seeds of their own powers among humans, let them develop, even encouraged them, as if hoping that eventually humans might grow to meet them as equals.
We could have worse keepers.
...Indeed, we have done worse for ourselves, all too many times.
Felix turned back through the kitchen door, closed and barred it, went out to the main hall and up the stairs to Ellora’s room, thinking of how much he had to tell his sister.
He would have still more to tell to the circle at Arilinn.
